INHERITANCE: ALTERNATE WORLD (BOOK 1&2 COMPLETE)
by Deezmartini
Summary: Originally written by Christopher Paolini, Morzan and a handful of the Forsworn are alive. A malevolent Shade spirit is inside Eragon. Murtagh fathers a child with Nasuada. Elves are divided into three species, and have a more complex social system. A new map has been created. These and many more changes await you in this Dark Fantasy inspired rewrite of the Inheritance Cycle.
1. Chapter 1

ERAGON: THE REWRITE

(Also, check out the timeline of events in the thread "Historian's Codex: Inheritance Alternate World for an in-depth description of races, kingdoms, and other factors of this very different AU)

Arya spurred her palfrey onwards, ignoring the beast's labored breaths and whines. She focused on the dirt road ahead of her, canceling out all sound, forgetting the cold, forgetting the leather reigns that cut into her palms, forgetting the cries of her elven guard as they fell to the urgals that ambushed them not moments earlier.

She had no time for remorse, no time to turn and give them one last glance. If _he _got this last egg... Arya's focus snapped back into reality as an arrow zipped by her head, skimming the side of her forehead, right above her eyebrows. She could feel the blood trickle and flow backwards, pushed back by the speed in which she was moving.

_Faster. _

_I have to move faster. _

Arya thought with determination as she heard mounted troops gallop behind her, and the deep, guttural bellows of the urgals reached her ears between the beats of her heart.

_FASTER. _

She kicked her mount in the side with her spurs, and whipped the reigns. The horse whinnied in protest, but picked up its pace, the strong muscled legs of the animal pulsating with defined veins and bulging with muscles that were quickly reaching its limit. She heard more, no, _felt _more arrows being fired at her. But instead of impaling her through her back, they veered off and shot into either side of her. She activated her self-made enchantments, and they protected her, but for how long? With each defense, she felt herself grow weaker, her grip on the reigns growing less rigid, more slight...her eyesight growing dark around the edges of her vision...

It was then her horse fell.

It came as a surprise, Arya gasped as the palfrey suddenly stumbled over, sending her and her precious cargo tumbling forward. Arya was unable to right herself for the fall. She hit the hard and cold dirt road face first, her nose growing numb in pain as blood trickled from her nostrils and into her mouth, which was locked in a grimace. She had tumbled out of her saddle, and the blue egg under her supervision waited patiently for her, just within reach.

She heard the last gasp of her horse as it died. Further back, she heard the hoofs of her enemies. Even further, the cries of the urgals.

She reached for the egg, her arms strained, her body weak...

She was too far away.

Arya clawed at the ground with her other arm, pushing herself forward, her blade dragging behind her, slowing her down. But she didn't stop. She dug and dug, her fine fingernails bloody and covered with dirt as the cut themselves on the cruel earth. Her other arm reached for the egg, that precious azure sphere, filled with the hope of the world . . .

"It's a fine spell, is it not? I was able to trip your mount will little difficulty. One of the many wonders of magic. " A chilled voice said behind her. Arya's heart stopped, but not her body. She continued to grasp for the egg, dig into the earth, ignoring this new threat.

The voice chuckled. It was light, almost carefree.

"Dear child. Compose yourself. No one, especially an _elf _should be caught in such a state."

Arya continued to reach. Her fingertips could nearly feel the cool shell of the egg.

"It's HOPELESS!" The voice suddenly roared, and Arya felt an explosion of pain erupt from her shoulder as the intruder's sharp heels dug into her flesh. She roared then, balling her hand, which up until then had been a makeshift shovel, into a fist and turned her body over, pushing the hostile stranger off of her back. She could feel the pressure of the heel lessen, and then disappear. She rolled to her feet, ignoring the pain in her shoulder, and shot a wave of magic energy at her enemy, drawing her blade with her other hand.

The man, now that she saw it was such, laughed, and merely stepped forward, his movement hindered slightly by Arya's assault.

He had a handsome pale face and red hair that fell nearly to his waist while bangs framed his high cheekbones and green eyes.

"Such a weak spell." He laughed, his face contorted by a sneering smile. Arya growled and charged, placing both hands on her sword's hilt as she attacked. The man dodged her first blow, her blade harmlessly slicing vertically in the air. He looked at her with a dubious expression. She frowned and attacked again, switching her grip and stabbing at the man's stomach. He jumped backwards, the blade harmlessly poking his dark coat.

"And I see your swordcraft is as pitiful as your spell-weaving." The man mocked, opening his hands and whispering something, his eyes locked on Arya. His pupils glowed brighter and brighter, and Arya could feel the tint of foulness in his words.

Dark spells. Suddenly, in the man's grasp was a sword of fine make, and of grotesque design. Its blade was a shiny ebony, with a serrated edge and a wolf hiltguard. The hilt itself was long, enough for nearly four hands, but this man held the sword easily with one. The pommel was fashioned in a sharp, pointed dagger-like protrusion, and Arya could tell it was able to easily cut through leather and flesh.

The man advanced as the first of his mounted men came riding in. He heard them as she saw them. He smiled and turned his head, his hair whipping behind him as he did so.

"Just a moment. I want to enjoy this. It's been a long time since I've killed an elf."

Arya looked at him with steel eyes. He wasn't an elf, that was for sure...but he wasn't human. He seemed human, but there was something about him, something ageless and endlessly wicked that she couldn't place. He was an ancient evil, a pit of violence and despair.

"What are you?" She asked, her sword shaking in her grip.

The man flashed her a white grin.

"My name is Durza." He answered as he pounced, swinging his blade overhead and then bringing it down to Arya's waiting defensive stance.

"Your blood screams to me, elf. Let's make it spill."


	2. Chapter 2

Arya jumped back, her right leg stinging as a fresh cut dyed her white leather leggings red with her own blood. Her sword quivered in her grip as she locked eyes with Durza, who pointed his own blade at her. She was surrounded.

men circled her, kept her from running, and in the darkness she could see the glowing eyes of the urgals as they watched silently from the forest that choked the road.

It was cold. Arya's breath instantly turned into mist once it left her mouth, and the lack of heat numbed her body, made her slow to respond. She was covered with various nicks and cuts of various levels of seriousness, some only superficial, but others moderately deep.

Durza was toying with her.

He stepped forward, twirling his massive blade with one hand as he spun on the heels of his boots, closing the distance between them with terrific speed. Arya charged then, her blade pointed at his exposed back as he was still in mid-rotation, but as she stabbed, his sword intercepted the blow, sending a shivering response back to Arya that stunned her long enough for Durza to knock her blade upwards and leave Arya's stomach unguarded.

He beamed with violent glee as he dragged the serrated tip of his blade across her stomach, her blood trailing from the wound, twinkling in the light of the moon like red water. He then brought his sword down on her shoulder, hard, breaking it and forcing her to her knees. She roared in pain as the blow connected, and as she fell he pushed down harder, cutting through bone and muscle like a savage butcher.

"I believe you are defeated." He smiled cockily as she stared up at him from her veil of loosened hair.

He slid the sword slowly from her shoulder, Arya whimpering despite herself from the pain. His blade loosed with an audible _slopping_ sound, and blood, which was once stuck between metal and bone and muscle fell freely on the ground. All Arya could do was watch as her life force left her.

His eyes finally fixed on the egg. As he walked by her, he patted her softly on the head, and Arya could hear him behind her, whistling. She could visualize him now, hearing the sound of his clothing rumple as he knelt down with a grunt and obtained the blue egg with his free hand.

"Galbatorix was not pleased with losing his egg. He was _very _adamant about the punishment whoever the thief was should receive. But I had no idea you were an _elf." _He walked past and ahead of her, lifting the egg into the gaze of the moon. He was nothing but a darkened shape to her, but she saw the egg, the brilliant egg as it glowed...filled with endless power and savage beauty.

"_Gaisa-dum lyfis resciala_!" Arya suddenly screamed as a pulse of magical energy erupted from her. Durza turned, bewildered, and then gasped as the egg, which was in his grip, disappeared from his hands. He looked to his empty hand, and then to Arya, his eyes filled with growing anger.

"Sir...the egg...it's gone..." One of the mounted soldiers said to him at the edge of the makeshift dueling circle. Durza shot a look at him and then looked away as the man slid from his saddle and onto the ground, dead.

He walked gracefully over to where Arya still knelt, blood dripping from her ears and mouth, partly from her wounds and more-so from overexertion from using such a powerful spell.

He bent himself over, thrusting his sword into the hard ground so it stood on its own. He smiled at her, but Arya refused to look him in the eyes, keeping her face downcast as his breath, which smelt like fresh pine, beat against her forehead and parted her hair.

"So uncouth." He muttered, grabbing Arya's chin, forcing her to look at him. She felt too weak to resist.

Durza smiled.

"Hello. I have a simple question. Where did you send it?" His face looked friendly, but underneath the mask lied a cruel and vicious monster of unimaginable power.

"I don't know." Arya whispered.

Durza raised his eyebrows in question.

"Huh? I...I didn't hear you. What was that?" He mocked, parting his hair with his free hand and moving his ear closer to Arya's mouth.

She spat a thick mixture of blood and saliva into his ear, causing Durza to jump to his feet in disgust.

"You are a barbarian!" He said, backhanding her. Arya fell over to the ground, eyes still focused on Durza.

He produced a napkin and dabbed at his ear, an expression of disgust on his face.

"There are other ways to get the information I desire." Durza announced to his men, turning away from Arya for a moment.

"Though it is a powerful technique. And after riding hard for nearly three days on little food, I have grown...quite _weak_."

Durza paced around the circle, his men suddenly stilled.

"Who...should...I..._pick."_ He said, more to himself than to anyone else. He stopped in front of one man, sizing him up. The man shook, but kept his expression calm. Durza smiled warmly and continued, the man releasing a sigh that was loud enough for Arya to hear.

"Maybe we should draw straws like last time. No... That takes much too long. I'll just close my eyes and pick one of you." He said cheerfully, and then covered his eyes with his palm, and pointed at his men with his other hand.

" I'm going to spin around three times. Whoever I point to, I want you guys to arrest him and bring him to me, understand?"

There was a scattered response from his men. Durza smirked.

"Good." Durza spun three times, as promised, and then pointed randomly at his company. Arya watched as there was a struggle within the ranks, until two men, dressed in light leather clothing baring the colors of Galbatorix brought a third man to Durza, kicking and screaming as they did so.

Durza uncovered his eyes and regarded the weeping man. Arya felt her heart tug-he wasn't a man at all, only a boy, probably forced to fight for Galbatorix.

Durza's expression softened as he looked at the sobbing soldier before him.

"What is your name?" Durza asked genuinely. The boy, still sobbing, choked out a response.

"D-Deran Horrun S-Sir." He cried. Durza shrugged.

"Well, better to die here than die by the sword or spear." Durza said as he thrust out his hand and sent it cutting into the boy's chest. The soldier gasped as Durza's searching hand ripped his torso open, blood splattering on his former brothers' in arms faces as they held him. Durza rolled his eyes in annoyance as he dug into the boy, until, finally, he smiled, and with a grunt of effort, pulled a still-beating heart free of the soldier's body.

"You can drop him now. Your arms must be tired. Good work." Durza commended, and his men dropped the boy. He landed on the ground like a sack of vegetables. Durza looked at the heart for a moment, licked his lips, and then took a bite out of it, blood squeezing out of the tough muscle from between Durza's teeth.

"You never get used to the taste of heart," Durza said conversationally as he chewed.

He threw the half eaten organ to the wood and walked over to Arya.

"I feel much better now. Well then." Durza gripped Arya's head firmly with his bloody hand. Arya felt his presence instantly in her mind, spearing her thoughts like a soldier spears an enemy. She groaned weakly from the pain as Durza ripped her mind apart. He then rose with a disgusted sigh, his face written over by annoyance.

"The elf...the elf _wench _doesn't even know where she sent the damn egg!" He screamed, turning and kicking Arya in the stomach as he yelled.

"Take her prisoner. Search the surrounding townships. Damn it all it could be anywhere in the damn _countryside!" _

Durza looked around at his men as they looked at him.

"What are you waiting for? Go!" He screamed. At once they all began moving, and Arya felt herself being lifted by strong hands.

"Take her to my abode. I need to send word to Galbatorix. I will leave half of the urgals to you, _second in command." _Durza said as he pointed at an armored man sitting atop a horse. The man nodded, his armor creaking slightly.

"I will find that egg. Or it will be the death of all of us. Galbatorix is anything but forgiving." Durza whispered, and as Arya faded into the blackness, she grinned. She heard a twinge of fear in Durza's voice.


	3. Chapter 3

Eragon wiped a sweaty forehead with his forearm as the sun beat down on his bare back. To his annoyed humor, he found that his arm was _also _wet with sweat, causing him to smear shaggy dark brown hair across his brow, bangs sticking to his skin. He sighed, laughing to himself, as he resumed full grip of the sickle he was carrying, and continued cutting the wheat that grew on his uncle's small farm.

Carvahall. It was a simple town, meager yet earnest. It was filled with hard working people who didn't care for politics, but cared only that they were protected from the cold of winter and the sharp blade of bandits. The population was small, barely five hundred people called this patch of Alagaesia home, but the fields were hearty and the climate, for the most part, was mild. From Eragon's position ontop of his uncle's hilly field, he could see almost the entire town- the beer hall, the merchant tents, and various wooden homes littered the small clearing. He could see tiny armed patrols circling the settlement, the red flag of Galbatorix so bright it could be seen miles away.

Eragon smiled slightly. The flag always reminded him that he was safe and secure. And ever since Roran joined the Imperial Army, it reminded him of his brother. Eragon and Roran were both very close, Roran being just one year older than Eragon. They both lived with their uncle, Garrow, who was a widower but none the less a happy and hardworking man.

For the past seventeen years they lived, just the three of them, away from the troubles of the realm. Eragon sighed happily and put his sickle in the loop of his loose deer-hide pants. He gathered up the rest of the wheat in his sculpted arms, struggling as he carried the load over to an already full wheel barrow, and then pushed the field's bounty to the relatively large home behind him. Garrow was one of the most well off people in Carvahall, with a large farming area he was able to cultivate enough food to be able to eat healthily and sell.

But he was not a proud man- He thanked god for what he earned, and taught Eragon and Roran that everything could be lost in one moment, telling them that to be too proud of one's achievements was an act of folly. Eragon flexed as he pushed the wheel barrow forward, climbing over grassy field and rock. A number of times the wheel barrow got stuck, forcing Eragon to stop his labor completely and move whatever was blocking it out of the way. Despite this, he was happy to work- it kept him in shape and allowed his mind to think freely out in the open air.

The best part of it was that he had done his chores early- he had the rest of the day to himself. He could almost imagine the firmness of the bowstring between his fingers, the thrill and rush when he releases the arrow-

He smiled to himself as the joy of hunting urged him forward, the shed where they kept all of their supplies only a few feet away from him. With a grunt of effort, he trudged onward, sliding the wheel barrow into the shed and dropping the handles quickly, his muscles pulsating from strain. He left the wheel barrow in the shed- It was Roran's duty to put it all of the wheat away in the storehouse. With a content grin written over his face Eragon raced to his front door, where his hunting tools were located. Bow in hand and quiver over his shoulders, Eragon ran into the dark forest behind his home, not realizing that his life was about to change forever.


	4. Chapter 4

The bowstring stung as it dug into Eragon's thumb. His muscles were still, flexed, and ready. A bead of sweat dripped from his bangs and onto his cheek, smearing an eyelash and making his vision watery in his left eye. But he didn't move, didn't even try to blink it away.

An unassuming deer stood not twenty feet away from him, between the large trees that hugged the land of Carvahall. It bent down, ate, raising its head ever so slightly, its legs primed to run if necessary. It was fat off of the natural bounty of the land. Eragon's stomach growled as he imagined the deer roasting, with fresh rice and a nice bone soup.

He licked his lips and squinted his eyes. The Deer picked up its head once more, and Eragon turned to stone, making sure he wasn't seen. The deer, satisfied, dropped its head to the grass once more, a shadow passing over its supple body. Eragon pulled, closed his eyes, and released.

The forest, once quiet, exploded in sound. Eragon opened his eyes, pushing his legs forward as he rushed from his hiding place. He saw several other deer running from him, but his eyes looked for the one he shot. He scanned the belt of trees ahead of him, until he saw the bloody back end of one deer limping deeper into the wood. He swore and ran after it, dropping his bow so that the bowstring dangled off of the fingers of one hand, and then grabbing a carving knife with the other. The deer left a trail of blood as it fled, and steadily it slowed down, the drips of blood growing larger and larger until they became large streaks of red that colored the brown and green forest floor.

Eragon followed this trail like a hound until he found the deer, on its side breathing labored breaths. The arrow which stuck from its side rose and fell with each breath. Eragon felt a twinge of pity for the beast, walking over to it and cutting its neck, releasing it from its misery. Eragon dropped the knife on the deer's body and stepped away, catching his breath and placing bloody hands on his hips.

He looked about him aimlessly, noting for the first time how deep he was in the forest. He realized, with surprise, that the sun was also setting.

_How long have I been out here?_ He asked himself, bending over and reclaiming his knife. He walked around the body of the deer, preparing to cut it open so he could pick the choice pieces-

But at that moment, as he knelt, knife in hand, he saw a blue glimmer in the glass from the corner of his eye. He jumped in surprise, dropping the knife and waddling over to the source of the strange blue glimmer.

Eragon's eyes went wide as he looked at the object- It was large, round, and very smooth. It was a light blue in color, and when Eragon tentatively went out to touch it- The object was _warm._ He recoiled his hand, staring at the object with wide eyes. It seemed to draw him in, beckon him, it seemed to _want _him.

Eragon, forgetting about the deer, scooped the egg up in his hands, and made his way out of the forest, sprinting, not even knowing what he was doing with this strange bounty that appeared at his feet.


	5. Chapter 5

"Eragon! Eragon!" Roran's booming voice hit Eragon's ears like a sounding war trumpet. He nearly stumbled in surprise, darting out of the forest with his prize wrapped in his arms. He stopped for a moment, his eyes looking ahead, towards his home, and closer, Roran running towards him. His brother was still some ways away, so Eragon quickly put the egg down, rubbing dirt and and twig over it.

"Garrow was about to send out a search party. Hurry!" Roran said, his hands motioning Eragon towards him. Eragon stepped out from the forest's borders and onto the soft grass of his land, looking sideways at the hiding spot where he left his egg. Roran was visibly excited, his mouth curled in a grin.

"A drifter stumbled into town as we rode back from evening watch." Roran said, and Eragon noticed Roran still wore the simple uniform of the Empire- a black leather tunic with hide pants, and a swirling fire pattern was found blazing on Roran's left breast. Eragon lifted his eyebrows, interested.

"A drifter? All the way here?" He asked as they walked past their home and down into the town. From the high incline, Eragon could see a group of people massed at the town- He even saw men, dressed similarly to Roran, circling with their hands on the hilts of their swords. An unintelligible clamor was heard, and Eragon turned his attention back to Roran as his brother began to speak.

"Yeah, right as we rode into the valley we saw a man walking like a cripple, dressed like a foreigner. Wrapped up in brown robes from head to toe- Like the traders from the southlands." Eragon nodded, understanding. Traders from the south had a queer way of dress, covering their dark skinned bodies with brown and black robes, so only their black eyes were visible. They spoke in silent whispers, and even though their wares were valuable, People didn't trust them.

"So we stop, and our Captain asks the man what he is doing. The man just...falls over, like he died. We pick him up, and he has this _sword._" Roran stopped then, and Eragon walked ahead, not knowing, until he noticed the sound of Roran's footsteps ceased.

"_Sword?_" Eragon said excitedly, running backwards to a waiting Roran. His brother nodded, his face glossed over in awe.

"Yeah, but it was...more than that. It was magnificent. When our Captain pulled it from its scabbard, it had a _red _blade, broadsword, with a black hilt fashioned in the likeness of a _dragon's mouth. The eyes glowed._" Roran resumed walking into town, and Eragon followed in tow, and the sounds of argument steadily became louder and louder, and Eragon thought he could hear _Garrow's_ voice among them. He smiled in disbelief, he had never heard Garrow raise his voice.

Roran nodded, knowing what Eragon was thinking.

"He's pretty heated about this entire thing. That's why he sent me after you, we're going to have a vote." Roran said as the approached the town center.

"A vote?" Eragon inquired as he saw the faraway backs of the crowd.

"Yup. To determine what we're going to do with the drifter. Some want to kill him strangely enough. Some want to sell him to the capital and then pawn his sword..." Roran trailed off as Sloan and Katrina walked a few feet ahead of them, joining the crowd. Eragon nudged Roran, who blushed and jostled him back.

"What does uncle want?" Eragon whispered as the drew closer.

"There is a group who simply want to nurse the man back to health and send him on his merry way. But of course, you know Carvahall..."

"People are worried that the man will return with an army of possessed urgals?" Eragon joked. Roran laughed, his teeth shining.

"Yeah, something like that." Roran and Eragon edged there way to the front of the crowd, the townspeople greeting them kindly, and then turning and hurling demands at the guards. Eragon's eyes twinkled in recognition when he saw Garrow standing over a crumpled figure, arguing with a soldier. The soldier held a large sword, its blade hidden within its sheath, and Eragon could only assume it was the dragon-hilted weapon that Roran had spoken about.

"You're giving him the sentence of a _murderer!_" Garrow bellowed, and several other voices rose in agreement. The soldier who held the blade curled his face in comical contempt, rolling his eyes.

"Cap'n ish gon. M'the authoretty tull he gets bock. N'wut I sey ghoes, pessent." The soldier said, his thick accent placing his origin from the western human lands, were they spoke a different but similar tongue. Some of the soldiers with him nodded silently.

"I say we kill him!" A voice rose from the crowd, buffeted by a raucous cry of those who shared the same grim opinion.

"He could be in league with urgals and _demons!"_

"Look at em'! He's probably a mountain _bandit_!"

"He's innocent! I say let him go!"

All of the voices blended together into an unruly bloom of swears, threats, and demands. Garrow raised both of his arms, and surprisingly the crowd died down.

"We said we would have a vote. And you all agreed." Garrow declared, nodding towards the soldier especially. The man returned the nod slowly.

"Therefore, we will. Afterwords, we will tally the results. And we will do whichever option is the most popular." Garrow looked into the crowd, and then smiled when he saw Eragon and Roran. His eyes still searched, until they finally settled on a man named Hale.

"Hale! Count the votes and keep record." Garrow said with a grin as Hale, who was a small and stout fellow, shuffled up before the crowd and seemed to shrink as the eyes of his fellow townsmen fell on him.

" We will do this in an organized fashion- we are not barbarians. And whatever is decided, the choice will be supported." There were mumbles of _ayes_ heard as the townspeople swore themselves to respect the decision.

Garrow drew in a breath, and then announced the first option.

"All those who believe that we should kill the drifter and get rid of his belongings, raise your hand."

There was a ruffle of clothing as some hands shot up. Eragon saw that this idea was the least popular among the village. Hale's mouth silently moved as his eyes counted the hands.

"All of those who believe we should sell the man to the capital and then also sell his sword, raise your hand."

This option was significantly more popular, as more hands were raised, the soldier who held the sword more prominently. Several of Roran's comrades raised their hands, but Eragon noticed Roran's hand was not raised, neither was Garrow's.

"All of those who believe we should rest this man to his full health, and then release him with his property, raise your hand." As Garrow finished, he rose his own hand. Eragon, pressured by Roran, rose his hand along with his brother's. Several other hands rose, and Hale's face was stuck in concentration as he counted.

The village was quiet was they waited for Hale's judgement. The man, so small and quiet, attempted to raise his voice so that he could be heard.

"Counting my own vote... The village has agreed to see the man to full health, and then release him." Garrow cheered, along with several others. The soldier holding the man's blade swore and threw the sword down, and went storming off, his men following him, albeit in a more orderly fashion. Roran whooped, smiling.

"We saved a life today!" He cried, slapping Eragon's back. Eragon winced, but shared in Roran's joy, he too, was glad that the man didn't have to die.

"Who is going to keep him? None here have the room, save for one." Sloan's voice slithered into the ears of the crowd akin to how a snake sneaks into a garden. It was a jab primed at Garrow. It was no secret that the two men were not fond of each other.

But Garrow deflected the blow. "I was prepared to take the man in the moment I saw him. Eragon, Roran! Take him to our home." Garrow said as Eragon and Roran collected the man as the crowd slowly dispersed. Sloan didn't move, his eyes ever critical.

"I'm glad we have such a hero among us." He said as he slowly walked away, watching as Garrow bent down to pick up the man's blade. Sloan's daughter, Katrina, watched Eragon and Roran carry the man off, a small smile on her face.

Garrow grinned, accepting the compliment. "There are some good men in this world. _Some."_


	6. Chapter 6

Galbatorix sat on his high throne, his chin resting on a curled fist. Beside him, a young boy stood as still as a stone while holding a platter which, in itself, held a goblet filled with fine wine. Galbatorix could hear the boy quivering, fear and tired muscles causes him to stir. The King of Alagaesia glanced over at the boy, who immediately straightened up.

"At ease. You've been standing there all day." Galbatorix said with a sigh, waving the boy off. The boy nodded gratefully and slowly left the throne room, making sure he did not spill his expensive cargo on the even more expensive black carpet. Two armored guards opened the doors for him- dual massive slabs of wood decorated with reliefs of Galbatorix's various military victories. As they opened, a dark figure strode in, walking past the boy like a shadowy ghost. The boy gasped and spilled his platter, the wine instantly soaked in by the rich carpet.

The figure paused, and then looked at the boy as he fell the ground, hopelessly trying to staunch the wine with his shirt. The man watched him for awhile, and then turned away, continuing his way to Galbatorix. The king nodded at the figure, a smile growing on his handsome face. He raised his hand to the visitor.

"Ah, Morzan. Shall I summon the cooks? We should have a feast. It is not a regular event that one of my few forsworn visit me, especially in this time of tenuous peace. It seems we are only truly ever together on the battlefield." Galbatorix spoke easily, reclining in his chair. Morzan approached the throne, bowing slightly, his long raven hair falling over his face. He wore dark armor, as ebony as the night sky, with layered spaulders covering his shoulders, a breastplate painted dark red with blood hugged his chest, with similarly colored cuisess, greaves, and boots.

"The past years have treated me well, Galbatorix. But you know how I hate to visit you here, in this dreary place. After the loss of my two children." Morzan responded. Galbatorix frowned, understanding in his eyes.

"Rise, first of the Forsworn." Galbatorix said, and Morzan did, his face still young as it was more than a hundred years ago.

"Where is Murtagh? It has been seventeen years since I last saw him."

"Well- and away. He pokes around the southlands now, doing whatever he pleases. He wanted to train in a harsh environment to hone his skills in battle. I saw no reason to refuse the boy." Galbatorix said, his eyes leveling on Morzan's. Morzan's handsome face tightened.

"I assume you mean beyond Surda . . . the folk that live there are of a savage creed." Morzan responded, but offered no more objection.

Galbatorix leaned back in his throne.

"What have you come here for?"

"I request the Council assembles. I have had a vision. Something threatens us- I do not yet know what."

"It will take time to summon the rest of the Forsworn. You are here, but that leaves five- five that need to be contacted by raven, ship, or horse. It will take weeks. Months, perhaps. Alagaesia is a large land." Galbatorix said, rising from his seat and stretching his limbs. He too, was young, albeit with the face of a man nearing his middle thirties, not one in his twenties, like Morzan. Blonde hair fell from his head and tickled the nape of his neck, and the golden crown of the former king of Alagaesia pressed his hair around his temples. The crown still shone brilliantly, as it had one hundred years ago, and even more endless millenniums before then.

"What could threaten us? The elves have retreated into their lands. Durza controls the Urgal clans. The Southlords are too busy fighting each other than they are to attack us, and the Dwarves are stuck in their mountains. We live in a time of _peace." _Galbatorix grinned at Morzan, but the man did not return the king's smile.

"Have my dreams ever been wrong? When I told you that Evander, King of the Elves, would die in battle against us despite his greater numbers, was it not true? that reality came to be in a dream, and now I speak of another darker future. There is something coming. It has not arrived yet- but it will soon." Morzan responded, his voice echoing in the empty hall. Galbatorix rolled his eyes and walked down the steps that led to his throne.

Dreams had plagued Morzan before. In the past, he had brutally beaten Murtagh and nearly killed his lover, Selena, in a fit of frightened rage. Galbatorix had to restrain him, and all Morzan could say was that the _Prince _was coming. The thought reminded Galbatorix of Caomhim, and then of the day Selena had died . . . fleeing Morzan's wroth. Galbatorix sobered at the memory, and settled his blue eyes on his old friend.

"Explain to me this dream, Morzan."

"A man. Well, not a man. A statue. It is comprised of many different metals, different colors. But it was in the form of a man. It _glowed. _And it came to a greater statue, one much larger than it, and struck it in the heel." Morzan said, his eyes closed.

"I hardly think-"

"There's more. The heel of the giant statue shatters. But as it does, it cuts the smaller one across the back, causing that Statue to crumble. But the giant figure, from this point on, breaks apart, slowly, but surely. In this time, the defeated statue begins to _reform. _Eventually, the shape of the man returns, but the crack across the statue's back is never repaired. The larger statue, however, has degraded to a disgusting state. The giant statue attempts to rebuild itself, new metals mixing in with old stone. But the new metal doesn't fit, and the statue...which has never fully recovered...strikes the giant in the head, and this larger statue completely falls."

Galbatorix was silent for a moment, and then laughed quietly. "As I was saying, I hardly think this is of any concern."

"You're smart, Galbatorix. You know that this is a threat. Something we _must _ address. Lest all of our sacrifices be in vain."

Galbatorix remembered the grief on Morzan's face, seventeen years ago, when the seventh Forsworn, betrayer of the traitors, fled with Morzan's wife and their two newborn sons. The self hate as Morzan saw that in his rage, he killed Selena, she still strapped to the betrayer's dragon, the betrayer, Caomhim himself tumbling into the mists of the mountains that waited below the skies, screaming as Morzan's two sons died with him.

"Caomhim's actions still haunt my mind. While I still believe your concerns are...unfounded, I will summon the Forsworn. It will be good to see the rest of them again. It has been...long." Galbatorix approached Morzan, clapping him on the shoulder of his armor.

"Shall I arrange a room for you? Perhaps a fair haired maiden?" Galbatorix smiled. Morzan shook his head.

"No...that will be unnecessary. Have you destroyed my study in the time that I was gone?"

Galbatorix shook his head incredulously.

"I will take my stay there then. I find books and maps more comforting than sheets and young virgins."

With that, Morzan turned, his cape flipping after him. The two doors slowly slid open, and then slammed shut, leaving Galbatorix in questioning silence. Even after 120 years, he still did not fully know Morzan.

And he doubted he ever would.


	7. Chapter 7

Eragon watched the man writhe under a blanket fashioned from the thick fur of Garrow's sheep. He looked a_ little _better, and now that his cumbersome clothing was gone, he got a nicer look at the stranger.

He was too fair skinned to be a southerlander. Surdans themselves ranged from a light tan to dark brown, and Beyonders were completely black. He had a thick beard and a head of unkempt dark brown hair. Lines creased his face,and he looked relatively old. Eragon guessed the man was either in his late 40's or early 50's. A scar trailed down his left eye and past the left side of his lips. Even more curious was that when they changed him he had an even more intense scar- this one on the palm of his left hand. It was too cut up and scarred over to make heads of what could have given such a wound, even after Garrow had cleaned the earth from it.

But the man was living, and that was good enough for Eragon. He yearned to hear the man talk, to see what marvelous tales of far-off lands he had no doubt lived through. He had a sword, and an exotic one at that. He was no doubt an adventurer.

"Watching the old fool still?" Garrow gruffly spoke behind Eragon as the boy heard the heavy _creaks _of his uncle coming down the stairs. Eragon smiled as he turned to see him, away from the man on the floor of their home, in front of a dying fire and across from the table on which they ate their meals.

"He's no fool. He's a _knight!_ Look at his sword again, uncle, you know he didn't steal it. They don't make any like that in the entire world!" Eragon beamed. His uncle frowned slightly, but laughed humorously none the less.

"I'm not your _uncle. _I adopted you and your brother. And what do you know of the world?" Garrow asked. He was wearing his simple attire, a green tunic with loose fitting trousers. The sleeves were cut from his shirt, revealing strong and weathered arms, toned from years of toiling in the fields.

"I know you aren't. But I can't help but call you uncle, I have since I was little." Eragon explained, turning away from Garrow and stepping over to the stranger lying on the floor.

"Besides", Eragon started as he reached for the stranger's blade.

"I read a lot. You said reading is the way we discover what's around us". Eragon lifted the sword up to his face. Even in its sheath, it was a majestic, if not evil-looking weapon. How a man like this got such a blade...Eragon did not know.

"Reading is good, but it doesn't replace first hand experience. And put that down!" Garrow ordered, and Eragon could feel the shift of weight as Garrow reached for his back. Eragon laughed, turning and putting the sword in Garrow's waiting hand.

"I have to put this where you and Roran won't find it. Hopefully this stranger wake up tonight. I'm surprised he's even alive. It doesn't look like he's eaten a decent meal in ages." Eragon's gaze locked onto the man again.

Garrow was right.

Even with the blankets covering the drifter, Eragon could tell he was deathly thin. Yesterday, when he and Roran carried him home, they both were surprised how light he was. Eragon returned his attention to Garrow.

"Roran left for patrol already?" Eragon said, a mark of disappointment in his voice. He had hoped he could show Roran what he found the day before, prior to his brother leaving for military duty.

Garrow nodded. "Roran explained a little before he left. The Captain returned. It seems _his _superiors are flustered about something. He came back with more foreign troops and an assignment to search the entire valley."

This caught Eragon by surprise. _The entire valley? Carvahall was small, but the area it inhabited...it would take six armies to even begin to effectively search! _

"They're going to need a lot more men." Eragon chuckled.

"Listen, Eragon. There is going to be an increased military presence here. I don't know what they are looking for- But make sure you do not get in their way. The soldiers here are used to you- the new ones aren't. Don't test them." Garrow warned, and Eragon nodded silently. He knew what Garrow meant-

These new soldiers wouldn't hesitate to kill him should he become a nuisance. Especially under more stress from their captain.

"I wonder what has got them so troubled. Foreign troops haven't come here since the Urgal incursions... Well, it's better not to wonder, isn't it? Off with you then. You know what you have to do. After that, the day is yours." Garrow said with a smile to Eragon. The boy nodded, and bolted out of the house, almost forgetting to put on shoes as he did.

"Eragon! One more thing." Garrow called after him. Eragon waited for his uncle, strapping on footwear as the older man approached the open door.

"Your forearms were bloody yesterday... Did you go hunting?"

"Yes", Eragon said. "I-It got away."

"But you were close enough to get bloodied?" Garrow questioned.

"Y-yeah, uhm, It started kicking and I just let it go. I wounded it though." Eragon said, hoping his uncle wouldn't catch him lying. Garrow nodded absentmindedly.

"Well be more careful next time. We need the meat, and I'd hate to use some of our own at the expense of fresh milk." Eragon nodded and waved, smiling at his uncle when he returned the motion, and walked from the front of his house into the dark shed behind it. He saw the fields that they owned glowing in the morning sun, moving gently as the air from the breeze brushed by them. Their numerous beasts of burden calmly ate their fill in a green pasture, contained in a wooden fence that he and Roran and Garrow worked on together years ago.

He knew his chores- Wash the she-goats in the stables and then clean them out- but he had all day to do that. Garrow would be busy in town, so he couldn't get on his back if Eragon delayed in his work. He hated to do it, but he had to. He had to check on _it. _Whatever _it _was, he had an idea that it was something that the Empire was searching for.

And searching desperately.

Eragon made his way to the forest, as the ground turned from soft dirt to hard rock and then mushy cold earth, finding himself under the thick canopy of the towering trees.


	8. Chapter 8

The morning breeze ruffled Durza's maroon hair as he shined his magical blade beside the dying embers of his camp fire from the night before. The grunts of urgals drifted to his ears as they rose from forced slumber, awakened not by their own natural bodies but by Durza's evil enchantments of binding. The Shade, as beings of his kind were known, looked about him. They had camped far from where he had captured the elf and killed her two companions, closer towards the west, into his own township, Gil'ead.

Galbatorix had gifted the area to him in an act of goodwill, and Durza went to work quickly, building a grand estate for himself and fortifying the surrounding area with a crude wooden palisade. He routinely hired mercenaries - Southmmen and Westmen to round out his forces. In addition to his Urgals, and the men Galbatorix gave him, Durza's city was as well fortified as any under the King's rule. It also gave him a place to study. Durza was engrossed in the sciences of the human body- in addition to those of the elf, dwarf and Urgal. His experiments were focused on fusing the various beings, giving them traits not naturally born to them. A burst of excitement welled within him- With the Elf, he could continue his work. He had a never ending supply of urgals and humans, and dwarves, while valuable, were not as needed.

But elves proved elusive. He wished he had not killed her two companions, but that could not be helped. And that thought brought another one, one less savory.

Galbatorix would be waiting for a report on the egg. Annoyance and fear replaced his mirth, and Durza frowned, muttering softly as his blade vanished in a plume of black smoke. He rose to his feet, kicking dust onto the orange bits of fire that licked at the morning air in a valiant attempt to preserve its life. Durza could picture him now- a messenger, sent by Galbatorix, waiting at Gil'ead, with eyes like that of an eagles and believing borrowed power was his own.

But at least he had the elf. Galbatorix would be beyond fury, but if he told his king that he had atleast captured the elf, maybe his punishment would be less severe. Galbatorix had always taken a bored interest in Durza's experiments, and the Shade hoped that-

_STOP THIS!_ A voice growled within his mind. Durza's eyes shot open as he felt the _other. _

_You're weak Carasib. Placating to Galbatorix's whims like a dog. _Durza frowned, turning his attention on the rousing urgals as they carried out his orders like machines-gathering camp material, holstering their weapons, and containing their prisoner. They did all of this by command of the Shade, not a vocal order, but rather one heard in their thick skulls, an order that was unable to be disobeyed. They circled his own tent, and he watched as the grass that they slept on stuck to the ground, their heavy bodies marking their positions that they had rested in.

_You were nearly a king once. Now look at you- you're nothing. A king of urgals and flea ridden humans. _Durza ignored the _other. _It had a habit of finding fault in everything he did, and was always quick to show its disapproval. It reminded him of Galbatorix.

_I am nothing like him! _It howled within Durza's mind. He smiled then, finding humor at the _other's _reaction.

_Pots...spots...mots...rots...blots...Pots... _Another voice began, and Durza's mood soured. This one did nothing, but repeat the same words over and over again, and then rhyming them- sometimes making up a word just so it fit into the pattern. The voice droned on and on, until it became a never-ending sound in the back of Durza's mind.

They were in the flatlands. Thick forests, a feature that the North was famous for, dwindling as they continued. Few trees surrounded them, even now, and as Durza looked ahead, past his urgals, towards Gil'ead. He couldn't see it, not yet, but he knew as the land grew less sparse and more flat, more rocky and less abundant, he was close. He would have to endure Galbatorix for a short while, but then he could begin his work.

_But the egg? What will you do about the egg? _The voices never stopped. Sometimes a voice would pipe up and comment on something, a voice that Durza didn't recognize. But regardless if he did or not, they were always there. It was the price of power. The price of becoming a Shade. Durza stepped from his hill and down towards where the urgals were mindlessly massing. They smelled significantly better than they did previously, as Durza had marched them into a nearby river the day before. Some of them had drowned, but, as Durza smiled at the memory at one Urgal simply floating away after it had lost the strength to resist the current- He guessed that was the price of cleanliness.

The egg.

Durza walked through the urgals, each one about six feet tall, with curving horns and bowed legs. Gray skin covered massive muscle, and yellow eyes glowed from sunken sockets. Mouths hung open, revealing sharp teeth jutting from dark purple gums. They were a race built for war, built for plunder. What they lacked in intellect they more than made up for in battle skill and beast-like cunning. When his urgals fought, he sometimes allowed his powers over them lessen, so that they were partially free to fight however they choose.

Durza didn't micromanage.

The shade passed through them, like a wraith passing through massive towers of an old forgotten tomb. His horse, a black war beast with a thick mane that fell over its muscular neck- waited for him as he approached. He climbed up the saddle, and gently rode past the crowd of urgals. He now towered over them, and he allowed his gaze to pass over the beasts for one last time before he returned his attention to the west.

With a flick of his wrists, his horse galloped ahead, thundering the ground as hard hooves pounded the earth. Behind him, the urgals ran, heavy bodies plodding on stout legs. They would follow him to the end of the earth, into the flames of hell, and into a bottomless ocean if he ordered it. But as he was their master, he was also Galbatorix's slave. The thought of his king's face brought a grimace to his face as he rode.


	9. Chapter 9

The high midday sun stealthily broke through the shield of leaves that covered Eragon has he huddled over his bounty. It was exactly where he had left it, covered by the hubris of the forest, unmolested. His heart beat rose as he watched the object, large, about the size of a large stone, with a bright blue coloring. He had no doubt that it was in-fact an egg- but there was something different about this one. It wasn't hard in the way a chicken egg would be, but softer, giving way to his delicate touch. However, the leathery membrane itself was strong, despite it being soft to touch. It was cool, and the feeling of it caused him to feel shivers that ran from his arms right to the base of his neck.

_What should I do with it? _He asked himself as he was mesmerized by the beauty of the egg. Could he take it back home? What would Garrow and Roran think of it? The thought of Roran suddenly brought to the front of his mind the desperate searching of Galbatorix's soldiers. Eragon looked at the egg again, grasping it with both hands and lifting it from the dirt of the earth.

He wondered what the Empire wanted with the egg- Was it some old heirloom, passed down generation to generation? Or was it some magical item- granting the owner power beyond his wildest dreams. The thought caused a smile to catch on Eragon's face. Magic was a subject never spoken of in Carvahall. The townspeople believed in only one thing- Death and the harvest. Eragon remembered when an entertainer had rode his way to isolated Carvahall- claiming to perform tricks of magic lost to age and war thousands of years ago.

The residents, interested but critical, watched his performances, Eragon and Roran chuckling as the townsmen, Hale and Garrow among them, took turns catching the magic man using sleight of hand, trick mirrors, and smoke. The man was so infuriated he stormed off of the stage and rode from the town in a huff, leaving most of his supplies party to the children.

Eragon sighed, shifting his position from squatting to sitting, his legs resting on the soft ground of the forest floor. He placed his egg in his lap, resting both hands on either side of it. A beam of sunlight broke through from the forest's shield, landing on the crown of the egg. Eragon watched the light as it warmed the egg, until the egg grew hotter, the thin membrane growing hard and brittle as it lost its elasticity. Eragon jumped to awareness, attempting to remove his hands from the egg. He stood, but his hands would not relinquish the object, his palms stuck to the sides of it as they burned. He whimpered weakly as the heat intensified, reaching a glowing climax until his right hand felt as if it was engulfed in fire- Eragon screamed then, but at that moment, the egg dropped.

And shattered.

Eragon fell to the face of the forest, his face blasted by a mist of pale gas that was freed when the egg shattered. His right hand still burned, and as his fingers searched through the smoke, he noticed that the palm of his right hand _glowed. _It was then he felt it. A small, soft creature touched upon the front of his fingertips, and as the smoke cleared, Eragon's eyes fell on the tiny being.

Limp wings, similar to a bat's, folded down the sides of the creature's back. A long tail whipped behind it, and four legs strained themselves against Eragon's skin as they tried to support the reptilian body they served. A miniature head lifted and two eyes, naive yet intellectual, met Eragon's. Eragon _felt _rather than heard the creature speak to him. It said only one word, and the voice he felt inside his mind was young, similar to a toddler's, but somehow foreign, familiar yet not human. The word it said was _Eragon. _And as he cradled the small animal in the folds of his tunic, it kept repeating his name.

_Eragon. Eragon. Eragon. _

He walked back to his home, alert to anyone who could be coming past. His mind was blank, nearly disbelieving, as if he was awake during a dream.

In his arms, Eragon held a newly hatched dragon.


	10. Chapter 10

MORZAN poured over his various books and scrolls, a dim candlelight aiding him as he read. His long hair nearly touched the ancient parchment as he craned his neck, his pupils focusing on the elven scribbles that hugged each crevice and ripped corner. He frowned, carefully shifting pages so he could read others, being sure to treat the old passages with great care, else they become even more ruined, and lost to him forever.

He was in his study, and to his quiet joy Galbatorix had spoken true- It was mostly unchanged. Few had visited the room while he was away- Galbatorix had, however, posted guards at the small black door so that no one but himself or Morzan could enter. For that, he was grateful. However, Galbatorix had neglected the library, and when Morzan saw it, the room was much the same...albeit with cobwebs tangling the rows of books, unmoved and snug in their bookcases. Moths had taken to the room as well, he could see their dried corpses in the long forgotten webs of spiders, but some fluttered about when he dragged the door open, light entering the room for the first time in almost two decades.

That was three days ago, and Morzan had not yet left the library. For the most part he was left alone, Galbatorix would sometimes intrude on him, but upon receiving a cold reception from Morzan, his visits were infrequent and far between. The first Forsworn licked his finger as he dragged another page safely to the side, opening a dried leather bound book that was found underneath. All of these books, scrolls, and unorganized pages Morzan personally plundered from the Great Library of Rehoiael, a source of information that had supplied Dragon Riders for thousands of years- Until the rebellion. That was one hundred years ago...When Morzan was young in mind and body. Now, he was still young, but his mind aged- became wiser, more intelligent. As he peeled the book open, his thoughts wondered to the remaining Forsworn.

There were six of them, save for the traitor, Caomhim, who had not only violated his wife but conspired with her, and in the end, carried his two new born sons to the grave with him as he died. His dragon, a female called Saphira died as well, dooming the future of dragonkin. All surviving dragons now were male. There were three eggs that Galbatorix had salvaged from the Riders long ago. Of the three, it was possible that one egg could hold a female. But one was lost, much to Morzan's dismay, but Galbatorix assured him the egg would be found. Somehow, he doubted Galbatorix's promise.

Morzan gently twisted the first page of the book over, looking at a picture of a faded dragon that was long and sinewy, with an elf astride its body, flowing brown hair and skin the color of light bark. It was the likeness of Rayun'haurtubbi, the first rider. The wood elf founded the Riders, and lived for aeons, dying shortly before Galbatorix's rebellion. Morzan remembered fighting Rayun'harutubbi's dragon, Yormag- a massive beast that had felled one of the Forsworn and maimed another before it finally was killed.

The book was written in a combination of languages: First it was in the tongue of the Xoshan Elves, then the Laen, followed by the various tongues of man, both old and new. As Morzan read his mind regarded the rest of the Forsworn, passing over Caomhim.

Kinure Furstrom was the youngest- being only one hundred and thirteen years old. He had fine yellow hair, which he grew out so that it reached the tip of his buttocks- Morzan remembered being disgusted by how long Kinure's hair was. The young Forsworn's face was well made- brown eyes saw the world from a visage perfect in every way- a small, rounded nose, lips that were not too thin or too full, strong eyes and brow, with a slim but athletic figure. He was human, highborn, from a house that was destroyed in the Rebellion. Kinure himself slew his father and three brothers in battle, and then devastated their lands with fire from his dragon, named Gintoss.

Morzan flipped through the pages of his former order's history, growing impatient as his mind drifted.

Alauinel was the only female within the ranks of the Forsworn. Morzan remembered her as being beautiful in sight and in mind, with a robust figure uncommon for an elf, aided by curled yellow locks, pouted lips, and piercing purple eyes. Her ears curved upward and slightly higher than the other variations of elves, that and her fair skin marking her as a Laen Elf. She, like all of her people, was prone to pride, and pride is what drove her to betray the Riders, destroying anything and anyone allied with them. Her dragon Osoroion was equally vicious, small in size, at least the last time Morzan had seen him. Osoroion, however, made up for his small stature with speed and strong muscle- Morzan had seen for himself the dragon kill others of his kind that were much larger.

Morzan skimmed through hundreds of pages in the old books, chronicling old battles ages past, highlighting various heroes of the order. It also had the dates of the induction of the new races, a line which ended with Humans. Dwarves had been forbidden to become Riders, due to their unstable connection to the world around them, which led to the race becoming unwary of Riders, and eventually waging war. The war with the Dragon Riders is what forced the Dwarves to go underground, and to hide in mountains. They fear the sky, as they rightly should.

Farland Kingsbrood was next. Older than even Galbatorix, and oldest of the Forsworn. At four hundred and sixty six years old, he had the face of a man in his early forties, beautifully aged. He kept his hair short, as it was when Morzan last saw the rider. Well built and tall, he forged not a riders blade but a rider's great-sword, a sword that Morzan saw cut through a dragon's neck, sending the dragon's large head, sputtering blood and fire, down to the ground below. Farland's mount's name was Barrion, a name shared by Farland's ancestor, who was claimed to be of the First Walkers, the pioneer humans. It was common for a Dragon to pick a name from the culture of their Rider.

The last two were Hossa Biniessien, a former southlord with ebony skin and straight black hair. Well versed in magic, he was a formidable man, and delved into the secrets of the craft, as his people were known. His dragon was named Aariuthma, and was a behemoth, dwarfing most dragons he flew with. Blood thirsty and violent, Aariuthma reveled in death and destruction. Morzan feared Hossa for his magic, and Aariuthma for his strength and bestial nature. Avela Massieo was the last rider, hailing from the western human lands. Swarthy and curly haired, he was the envy of the male riders every time he was seen, for his skill and beauty. His dragon was called Absolearet, equally as beautiful as Avela, and as chivalrous. When they did battle, they remembered the Rider Code, a code that the others, Morzan included, had forgotten.

He would see them soon, his fellow Forsworn, the last remnants of the forgotten Riders. Morzan had finished looking through the history of the Order, and turned the book over, disappointed. He had hoped to find meaning in his dreams from the knowledge of old- but he hadn't. His dream was the future, this he knew, but it was could be bound to no ancient Prophecy, no last words scrawled thousands of years ago by a powerful rider. What he faced- What his kingdom faced, was something new. Something dangerous.

For the first time in seventeen years, Morzan felt the ropes of fear tighten around his neck.


	11. Chapter 11

THE DRAGON grew faster than Eragon anticipated. He watched the newly hatched youth scamper around in the grass, wings flaring as she ran. Eragon could hear her thoughts in his mind, her inquistive voice mumbling, strange thoughts mixing with his. At first the sensation had scared him- her intrusion was sudden and queer- but as she grew he got used to the feeling. She knew a few words, well enough to speak haltingly to him, but she preferred to relay her thoughts to him by a mixture of emotions and smells, physical feeling and sights. This form of communication was unfamiliar, but Eragon was more than surprised that he could understand everything that she wanted him to.

The morning sun was rising, splattering the open sky with hues of orange and red. Eragon looked at the artistic orb of light rise as it rose above the trees that surrounded them. They were deep in the wooded area behind his village, where Eragon had constructed a den for his Dragon. She _hated _the den, and would rather be out in the open, but Eragon had stressed the importance of her not being seen. It had been a mere three weeks since she hatched, and Eragon doubted that the Empire had lost interest with her. No, the soldiers looked even harder than they had before. Roran had told him how the search had been expanded to encompass all of the northern holdings, and even to the edges of the mountains. Roran knew it as the _Stone. _Eragon wanted to share the truth with him- But he couldn't. Roran was a good man- if Eragon told him about the egg, his brother would be forced to choose between his duty and his family.

Eragon did not want to see the results of that choice. The drifter they had taken in was doing better, walking about and talking. He still had a ways to go, being very thin and still weak, but he was kind enough, and even helped Eragon with simple tasks while Garrow was in the village and Roran was out on patrol. The man told them his name was Brom, and when Roran asked what he had been doing, wandering about in the deep flat valley, he gave them a strange tale.

Eragon remembered now, as he watched his young Dragon get out all of her excitement before she was forced to stay in her wooden keep.

"I was in the South." Brom had said, his voice croaked, and he coughed. Garrow had Eragon fetch the man a flagon of water. Brom nodded gratefully, and drank. He slumped over his chair and leaned on the table, but his eyes seemed alert enough.

"South? Dras Leona? Harbbold's keep? Fentlass..." Roran trailed off as Brom shook his head.

"Further. Past the deserts. Past even _Surda_." He coughed again, and Eragon winced as he could hear the phlegm building in Brom's chest.

Garrow made an irritated sound as he ate his dinner, a simple soup, with salted beef and hard bread.

"Impossible. There's nothing past Surda- It is an endless waste."

"And how would you know? This world is filled with dark wonders old and new. There are lands beyond Surda, with kingdoms of men with jet black skin, lords who bathe in gold dust and wage war atop horned horses ten feet high."

Roran leaned forward, his face beaming with interest.

"And you've seen these things?"

"Aye." Brom said, taking a drink of water. "I have."

Garrow was about to respond, but Brom began speaking again.

"I was a mercenary in those lands. Surda is where common law stops- South of Surda, there is no king. There are _kings. _Hundreds of them. All fighting each other in an endless war. Pillaging one another, making alliances, and then breaking them. It is their way of life. Beyond even that? Vast jungles with towering trees. Islands stuck in an endless winter, and beasts with more intelligence and cunning than man that stalk the hidden expanse, and hunt the deep and forgotten seas. That is the world past, where there was never men, only creation and magic."

It was Eragon who spoke this time.

"Have you seen them? What you speak of? These islands..." Brom shook his head.

"No. The farthest I've been was the Reaches of Dayyub, which even the Southlords believe is the edge of the world. But I have been told these things. By mages and travelers, hunters and heroes alike. They return with hollow faces, and eyes that are twice the size of a normal man's, on account of the horrors and wonders they experienced. But it was always very few that returned, despite sometimes entire armies entering the Old Lands."

Garrow laughed, unimpressed by Brom's tale.

"I'm sure there are many things in this world that we simply do not understand," He offered, taking another slurp of his meal.

"How did you find your way to the valley? Where we found you?" Roran asked. Brom paused, taking another drink, coughed, and then answered.

"I was fighting. Past Surda there is nothing to do but fight. Sleep, fight, and shit. Eat if you can. Starve if you can't. The lord I fought for was named Na'iem Al Dem. His skin was the color of coal, with fiery yellow hair and red eyes. I won many a battle for him, leading his armies. But he took a liking to my blade", Brom paused, glancing over to his sword, which Garrow had retrieved for him when he had woken. It was the first thing he said when his eyes shot open. _Where is my blade? _

"I wouldn't give it to him. So he planned to have me ambushed. Killed. But I am harder to kill than I look. I was able to drive his men off, and steal a horse and ride for Surda. But the horse died long before I reached the border. Na'iem hadn't forgotten about me, no. He had sent camel riders to come capture me. Attack me they did- I was an easy find, I rode in one direction and I stood out from the natives. Killed many of them, their water and provisions kept me alive as I continued. Stole a few camels, but they died one after the another and stopped coming altogether after Na'iem's men gave up pursuit. I ended up crawling to Surda."

"It was from there I caravan jumped- I didn't know where I was going, I just moved. Merchants, warriors, nobles...I passed through every sort of life on this earth. It was at Carn where my caravan was attacked. I survived, with my sword, but I was left to wander the green plains. That is where you found me. I know not how many days I walked before I found myself on the outskirts of your village."

Garrow grunted, satisfied enough by Brom's tale. "Well, you're welcome to stay as long as necessary." Brom nodded. "Thank you. Though I doubt I'll be needing to keep here for much longer, I recover quickly."

And it was true. In the days since then, Brom grew stronger and stronger, and Eragon could could see that it seemed the man was growing _younger. _His skin unwrinkled, his hair regained its sheen, and even his long beard became a dusky brown, when it was bleached white when he had came to them.

_Brom. _He felt the feral voice inside his head, Eragon nodded, smiling.

_Yes. The man I told you about before. _

_Does he fly? _

_No. Men cannot fly. We lack wings, unlike you. _

_I have wings, but I cannot fly. _

_Not yet. _Eragon answered, and he saw his dragon flapping about aimlessly. She needed to grow stronger, right now, her wings could not support her weight. She jumped from the ground, wings beating ferociously, but all for naught- She hung in the air for a moment, and then fell to the ground. She snarled quietly and then looked to the sky.

_Sun comes. Wooden house now? _She asked Eragon, taking him by surprise. Usually, he had to remind her of the sun, and the danger it brought.

"Yes, wooden house now." He answered with his voice, and his dragon trotted towards him, blue and brilliant. He gathered her up in his arms, and the comfortable heat that radiated within her warmed him in the early morning air. He turned, and walked a few paces into the forest, going to the large face of wood that laid between a large oak tree and a round stone. The wood leaned on the tree diagonally from the stone, giving his dragon a shady place to spend her daylight hours. Eragon always supplied food for her, giving it to her at the start of each day and at night.

He put her down, and she scampered off to the wooden house, and looked at him, her large eyes looked almost sad. He frowned, walked towards her den, and dropped a few bits of raw meat for her.

"I'll return when the sun begins to go down." He said.

_Goodbye. _His dragon replied.

_Why are we afraid of the sun?_ Was the last thought he heard from her as he walked away. It wasn't the sun he was afraid of. It was the Empire. He couldn't stay here. Not with her. And at that moment, he knew the one person he could trust with her existence, one man who could get her to safety.

Brom.


	12. Chapter 12

Murtagh ducked as a wooden axe skimmed over his head. He snarled, sending the point of his blade into the dark stomach of his attacker. The Beyonder gasped and fell over, And Murtagh pulled his wooden sword backwards... and then landed a heavy blow on the crippled desert-dweller. As he wheeled around in the sand, red blood smeared the russet training edge. Murtagh's green eyes sized up the rest of his enemies as he pulled the maroon scarf tighter around his bare neck. Dark-skinned youths slowly climbed towards him, various non-lethal weapons in their hands. Green scarfs wrapped their necks, and behind them the massive walls of the arena curved, fading aurulent gleaming in the light of the heavy midday sun.

"We're outnumbered."

Murtagh glanced at his team mate, a light skinned youth from the lands beyond Surda. The boy had the traits of those people, thin aquiline nose, pouty lips, and shaggy red hair, albeit with skin that was olive in color, as opposed to the deep blackness of the people who marched the lands beyond Surda. He held his own wooden sword, waving the tip of it side to side before his face.

"I know that. We're going to have to work together if we're going to win, Zidda" Murtagh grunted and nodded his head forward. The opposing team had stopped their advance, standing a few mere feet away from Murtagh and Zidda. The blazing fire in the sky beat down on their backs, and highlighted the various healed wounds that all of the boys bore. Scars were their way of life.

"Two against six. I like those odds." Zidda laughed and launched himself into battle. Murtagh swore and followed, his long hair tied in a ponytail that bounced against his lower back. The boys against them reacted with trained speed, two of them standing their ground as the rest moved back to flank Murtagh and Zidda.

Zidda swept his sword downwards, separating the two boys who had meant to lock him in combat. One of them raised his blade, hoping to catch Zidda on the top of his head as Zidda brought his sword up from the sand. Murtagh saw the move, and threw his blade at the boy, and it swung hilt over point, hitting the Beyonder before Zidda was beaten by the flat end of the boy's sword.

Five to go.

Murtagh caught the second boy as he charged to attack, catching his blade arm and disarming him with a quick jab to the stomach. The boy lessened his grip on the handle, and Murtagh grabbed the sword-end, jabbing the hilt into the boy's eye, and pulling the blade free from his weak hands as the boy fell over, crying and grabbing his wounded eye. Zidda and Murtagh stood back to back as the remaining four Beyonders circled, silent with their dark predatory eyes. They all charged at once. Murtagh fell to the ground as a curving two-handed blow zipped past his head, and into the edge of Zidda's sword as he held it behind his back, kicking another attacking Beyonder in the face with his dusty sandal. The boy that had attacked Murtagh recoiled, and Murtagh rose from the ground, his left hand filled with sand. He whipped it at the boy's eyes, and the Beyonder swore as he was blinded, swinging his blade frantically.

Murtagh danced around him and planted the flat end of his sword hard against the hind quarters of the boy's head.

Two more.

Zidda ran to confront one of the last opponents, his sword swinging around his body in Beyonder fashion as he ran, and his blade met the other boy's, and they engaged in a twisting dance, blocking, parrying, and evading, causing the tired sand of the Arena to rise around them.

"_Aoro,_ _Bahani." _Murtagh settled his eyes on his opponent, a swarthy beyonder with bright red hair and dusky dark skin. His nose was pointed like a hawk's beak, and his thin lips were curled in a contemptuous smile.

"_Uhnama dal desrek-kai?"_ the boy said. Murtagh shrugged at him in response.

And charged.

The boy waited until the last second to attack- Pointing his sword straight at Murtagh's head. Murtagh, however, saw the blow before it came, and tilted his head, flipping his blade over in his grip so that the bottom end pointed at his adversary. The beyonder gasped in surprise, leading Murtagh to smile as he drove the butt end of his sword into the beyonder's chin as the boy's arm passed Murtagh's head. The boy fell over, his mouth bleeding and his eyes rolling backwards. Murtagh turned just in time to see Zidda finish off his foe with a crushing blow to the legs that sent the boy to his knees, whimpering.

Murtagh sighed and threw his training sword down, his chest rising and falling moderately fast. He looked up at the open sky, a cerulean painting devoid of clouds greeting him.

There was an explosion of applause, and Murtagh squinted, visoring his eyes with his hand so he could look up to the shaded balcony where the lone man clapped. He stood with two guards, who wore thick white robes that left only their eyes visible. In their hands they held wicked looking iron spears, cloth wrapped around the long metal where their hands grasped the weapons.

"_Kinda! Kinda! Alona habareh junta desin!" _The man bellowed down to them. He wore a face as dark as night, with long auburn hair flowing from his head and down into his chest. He was garbed in rich clothing, a tunic dipped in gold with flared sleeves the color of turquoise. He was not unfit, and stood tall, nearly as high as his guards did.

"He praises us for our victory." Zidda whispered as he walked to Murtagh's side. Zidda cupped his brown hands around his mouth and replied.

"_Kinda? Aha areh sluno desin!" _

"What did you say?" Murtagh asked. Zidda smiled, his face glistening with sweat.

"I told him victory is weak when we fight lazy boys." Murtagh nodded. He had gone here to train, but he was losing his patience. In the three years he had been here among the Southlords, he had not been challenged beyond his limits. He had gone here to be broken, and then rebuilt, but he had faced every challenge with little to no difficulty. He had inherited his father's prowess in battle. Murtagh was glad, however, that the land was harsh. In Uru'baen he had felt himself growing complacent. With Galbatorix content to sit on this throne and Morzan off to his own dark matters, Murtagh was left with the decision to stay in Uru'baen and grow fat with the various lords and lordlings of Alagaesia, or to go and fight in the dangerous lands of Surda and beyond. He was sixteen when he left, and the land here had honed him into a hardy and strong warrior. He had gone without food, water, and endured blazing heat and bitter cold. He had experienced more pain than even the most seasoned generals, and led his team to victory in various mock battles.

The Beyonders loved mock battles.

Murtagh turned his attention back to Zidda and Karem-Tib Zole, the massive man on the balcony. They were talking back and forth, in the strange tongue of this land. Murtagh had learned that thousands of languages were spoken here. The dialect that Zidda and Karem-Tib Zole spoke was a mixture of High Surdan and the language of the Beyonders, the name given to the people beyond Surda. There were too many kingdoms and dynasties to term the natives with one name, so the title beyonders was used in its stead. Murtagh knew that there was even more land_ beyond_ the beyonders. He was at Karem's fortress, in Karem's land: A moderate swathe of space that stretched from the outskirts of Surda to the edge of the deep desert dwellings of the beyonders. Karem was supported by Galbatorix, who ordered him to apply pressure on Surda's trade, and to raid the various townships outside of the reach of Surda's military.

Surda was one of the few kingdoms that refused to swear fealty to Galbatorix. It came under new ruler-ship one hundred years ago, when Galbatorix allowed the youngest son of the ousted King to flee with a small portion of his court in exile. They came here, and in short time set up a new rival dynasty, in opposition to Galbatorix. Karem descended from a line that Galbatorix christened, solely for the purpose of disrupting any dealings Surda engaged in. The kingdom was too far for Galbatorix to engage directly, but too close to ignore. Regardless, it was a poor place, where the wealth was kept to the higher classes and the poor were left to fend for themselves. Surda occupied a large piece of land, but aside from the high north and the capital, which was further down into the desert, the land was lawless, and thousands of Surdans fled into Karem's arms.

"Karem has given us leave to return to the keep. He offers us his usual goods... food, drink." Zidda said. Murtagh nodded, his body reminding him he needed food as he did. Zidda told Karem in their strange tongue, and the man bellowed happily, clapping his hands together as four more guards entered the arena to escort Murtagh and Zidda from the theater. Zidda greeted them cheerfully in his tongue, and they responded in kind. A pair of large red doors opened at the center of the curving walls, and Murtagh and his company walked over the steaming sands and into the outside world. Karem called his land _Carosoab, _which means "place of Caros" in their bastard tongue. Caros was his great-great grandfather, the man that owed everything Murtagh saw today to Galbatorix, which wasn't much, Murtagh mused as they walked. Dirt paths slightly darker than the yellow sand snaked around for miles, leading to various holdings and mudforts, baring the flag of Galbatorix above Karem's banner, which was the head of a goat on a bloody field. The land was sparse in terms of foliage- and towns were often situated around a cool oasis that fed a hearty and green shrubbery. Most of Karem's people were fed with stolen goods: Either from Surda or ravaged from other lesser lords. Karem protected some of them, at the cost of the majority of their food and water, which was given as tribute. Carosoab was flat, save for hills of sand that formed from thousands of years of wind. The common people lived in dried mud houses, which kept them cool in the day and warm in the night.

As they marched they came across Karem's soldiers patrolling the vast borders of his kingdom atop massive camels that sometimes fit two men at a time. If they took an interest in Murtagh and Zidda, they didn't show it, their eyes were focused on the horizon, fingers twitching at thick bowstrings and dancing around curved scabbards. They had walked through the barren land for some time, the sun slowly setting as they made their way to Karem's holding.

It wasn't till they saw the massive spire pointing to the heavens did they know that they were there. It was a building of metal and stone, so high it seemed to be a pillar that held up the sky. Murtagh had been here before, for he lived in this spire, but every time he came near it, he was frozen with awe.

The spire marked the edge of the world.


	13. Chapter 13

Eragon inspected Brom anxiously as the grizzled man added more wood to the small fire.

_I should be sleeping right now..._Eragon thought to himself as Brom coughed in a dirty sleeve. It was late, and the frigid cold air seeped into Eragon's skin, easily evading the simple fur cloak he had worn to ward against the elements. Brom leaned on a fallen tree, wearing nothing but the artless tunic and trousers Garrow had given him. His sword, brilliant even in the dim light, sat across his lap, sleeping inside its makeshift sheath of wood wrapped in a cloth blanket tied by thin rope. Eragon's dragon stirred from underneath his clothing, trying to get a look at the man.

_Let me see him! _She cried.

_I want to see Brom. _

Eragon ignored her pleas and gazed at Brom across the fire. He returned the look easily, with eyes that seemed unimpressed by everything.

"So what is it that you have come out to show me, away from your brother and uncle?" Brom asked, finally. Eragon had approached the man earlier that day, telling him that they must speak, privately and securely. Brom had agreed readily enough, but he had left Eragon waiting by the meet up point deep in the woods of Carvahall for nearly an hour before Eragon saw him sauntering up. He had let his dragon roam around the then small fire, but when he saw a shape in the distance, he snatched her up within his cloak.

He relaxed, but not too much, when he saw it was simply Brom returning. Eragon leaned forward, and he felt his face being warmed by the spitting flame that separated the two men.

"I don't know you well, Brom. But you are the only person I can trust. You are the only one who might understand." Eragon began as Brom raised his eyebrows, but remained silent. Eragon swallowed air, closed his eyes, and moved aside the part of his cloak, and his dragon poked her tiny snout out, and sniffed at the air before jumping from Eragon's lap, landing by the side of the fire.

"Gods," Brom whispered, his pupils shining. He sat up, moving his sword away as Eragon's dragon approached him, sniffing at Brom's outstretched hand. Brom _smiled,_ and the small dragon began to purr softly, a deep rumbling sound from within her tiny stomach.

"I- I don't know what to do..." Eragon said as Brom's attention was focused on the dragon. For a moment, he was afraid that Brom would attempt to snatch his dragon and flee, and Eragon felt his hand going for the cutting knife he had hidden away in his clothing.

"I wouldn't, lad," Brom muttered, freezing Eragon in his tracks. "When did she hatch?" he asked as the dragon trotted back to Eragon, and with every step Brom's smile faded.

"A few weeks ago. She gave me this-" Eragon pulled his sleeve back and showed Brom his scarred right palm. Brom rose and grabbed Eragon's arm stiffly, drawing it closer to the fire, his eyes fixated on the brand.

Eragon's eyes were wide with fear, but he remained silent, aware of Brom's sword that lay by the man's feet. He never realized how afraid of Brom he was until now. Before, he had seemed weak and incapable. Now... it seemed as if the man reverted time, his skin clearing and wrinkles smoothing, his body hardening and growing wider with every passing day. Before, he had thought Brom older than Garrow, but now Eragon wasn't so sure if Brom was more than ten years older than himself.

"Where did you get the egg?" Brom asked after a long pause of silence. He released Eragon, and the boy sat back in the grass, rubbing his wrist where Brom had grasped it.

"It was simply in the woods. I found it while hunting. I thought this is what the Empire was searching for." Eragon spoke while his dragon climbed back into his lap.

"This was their prize. And now, you have it. And the egg has hatched for you. They most likely do not know... not yet. But you must leave this place. For the safety of yourself and your people."

Eragon shook his head slowly, doubt filling his mind. "I can't just go- Garrow needs me. Besides, I've evaded the soldiers well enough."

Brom's expression turned sour almost instantly.

"You ignorant little fool. Do you think your Dragon could grow here? And do you truly believe the Empire would only use soldiers to find this treasure? No. There will be darker things lurking, behind the banners and the armor...slinking beings that are made of shadow and malice. If they haven't been summoned... they will be. And soon."

Fear gripped Eragon's heart as he looked down on his dragon, snuggled close to his stomach.

"I was wondering... if you could take her.." He said softly.

"It's a _her?_ Gods! I'm surprised this town hasn't been burned down already. And I cannot, Eragon. Dragon and rider can only be seperated by death. Nothing more, and not a bit less." Brom fixed his glare on Eragon when the boy gave him a puzzled look.

"Your life has changed forever, Eragon. You are the first Dragon Rider to emerge in over one hundred years. And if you stay here, you will positively die."

Eragon drew himself in. He felt numb, but he wasn't sure if it was the cold, or the shock.

" I cannot leave... I know the danger but I just _can't.."_ Eragon stammered, and Brom's eyes went dangerous with anger.

"This is no longer about you, whelp. Do you truly know nothing? Do you know who the Riders were?"

Brom asked. Eragon shook his head, embarrassed and afraid. Brom sighed, placing a hand across his bearded face.

"I will have to teach you then. But not here. Not now. We must leave this place. And soon." Brom said, rising to his feet, and bending to retrieve his sword. Eragon still sat, struck with fear and awe.

"Come. You must rest now, boy. You will never be the same again." Brom ordered, walking past Eragon, his sword swaying on back. Eragon rushed to snuff out the fire, and followed Brom into the darkness of the woods, dragon bundled up in his chest and arms.

Sloan watched them leave, but there were nothing more than shifting shapes in the dark. _Damn the night. _He thought to himself as he blindly rose to his feet. As he did so, he cut his thumb on a thorn. Swearing, he placed his thumb in his mouth, and tasted the salty flavor of his own blood and it welled from the wound. _This is what they want. _Sloan grinned greedily as the thought of the reward they would grant him. Perhaps the king would shower him in gold- Mayhap even grant him a lordship and lands. He was tired of Carvahall, isolated and cold, prone to Urgal raids and untrustworthy merchants.

He could almost picture the army captain's face when he told him what he found, and the imagined scenario brought another grin, wider than the first. He was glad he had decided to follow Eragon and the man when he saw them leave in the twilight of night. He knew something was strange about the stranger, and the fruits of his labor had paid off. He had seen the dragon, he had heard bits and pieces of the conversation they had. All he had to do was tell the captain and then be ferried off to Uru'baen, where the king would grant him his prize.

_Rise, Lord Gullwater. _The king would say, and Sloan would rise, his face beaming. The king would possibly make him Lord of Carvahall- and Sloan would turn it into a force to be reckoned with. He would expel Garrow and his adopted son, Roran. He felt that Eragon would not be living that much longer. He smiled at the thought of the boy hanging. Now that his mind dwelt on the subject, he wouldn't mind hanging Roran. Roran, with his muscles and clear skin and dark eyes. Roran, who spent too much time around his shop, just so he could get a peak at Sloan's daughter. Sloan hated the way Katrina looked at him- He wondered if they escaped into the night together, tumbling in Carvahall's tall grasses...

Sloan rejected the idea. It was of no consequence. Soon, the boys would be dead, and Garrow would be too, or at the very least, removed from the town. Sloan would rule, as a loyal subject to the king, with knights deserving of a lord protecting him and his daughter and his people.

Sloan was almost laughing when he returned to the town, and let out a yawn of delight as he stumbled into bed. Tomorrow, everything would change.

For the better.


	14. Chapter 14

MURTAGH woke to the sound of earsplitting horn calls and strange howls in the tongue of the beyonders. He rose from his bed, his ebony hair falling over his eyes as he did so. He leaned over the side of his feather-filled mattress, groping around in complete darkness, until his hand curled around the familiar coolness of metal. He pulled his sword from underneath his bed and jumped to the stone floor, naked feet sending shivers of ice throughout his body. He wore little clothing, his upper body was bare, revealing a twisting work of scars that snaked from the front of his chest to the backside of his lower back. He held his blade by the scabbard, fashioned from fine oak covered in ebony leather skin. As he searched blindly in the darkness for more coverings, his room was suddenly invaded by a burst of light, and the sounds of horns and screams were amplified, his door no longer muffling the bedlam.

Murtagh's eyes adjusted quickly, and he squinted at the man who held the torch before him.

"Zidda, what's going on?" Murtagh asked as Zidda approached him. The fire lit his face, illuminating his eyes and accenting his red hair. He followed Murtagh to his dresser, guiding him with his light as he spoke.

"We're under attack. They came in the dark of night, after we retired... They easily cut through our patrols and militias." Zidda said, dipping the makeshift beacon lower so Murtagh could see his clothing. He picked a thick wool raiment, and slid the clothing over his body, and then covering himself in a simple hooded cloak, which was deep brown in color.

He belted his sword to his waist as he left his room, Zidda in tow. He walked into a hallway of chaos as men in various states of dress rushed pass, each of them armed in an array of weapons. Spears, curved blades, and knives. He saw soldiers with bows across their backs, following the general direction of the massing defensive forces.

The spires halls sloped downward- and they were narrow. Murtagh frowned at the disarray as he moved, Zidda close behind, his torch warming the back of Murtagh's head. He moved with the rest of Karem's infantry down the spire, his bare feet scraping against the stone: He had forgotten to grab his shoes. As they traveled downward, more horns flared, and voices were raised up in a defiant howl, but when Murtagh looked at the beyonders as they moved, he did not see any mouths opening. Only bright eyes, green with fear.

At the foot of the spire large twin doors separated them from the outside desert- but they were open wide, and Murtagh saw that Karem was ahorse, directly ahead of them, riding back and forth before the spire, yelling threats to the ominous line of torches that were arranged in battle formation. Murtagh knew what held the torches, despite the darkness that obscured the wielders.

It was an attacking army. Freed men, slavers, other kingdoms that finally mustered the strength to challenge Karem... it could be any of those, or a combination of all. The infantry poured from the tower and took up formation behind Karem, who, after one final insult, spat at the ground before him and wheeled his horse backwards.

Zidda was breathing deeply by Murtagh as he took up his place on the line. He looked at his fellow men and felt a twinge of annoyance- none of them were well armored, as none had time to sufficiently equip themselves. Murtagh grinned at the thought as he wriggled his feet on the coarse sand. Chill of night attacked before the invaders, and Murtagh saw many men shivering and heard the chatter of teeth. Murtagh was glad he at least remembered to dress warmly as he watched a man enviously eying Karem as he re-formed with his cavalry, dressed in wool and steel. The torches beyond them, on the hilly dunes, moved them, slowly advancing.

He heard a harsh order then, and the sound of arrows cutting through the night air. They were absorbed by darkness, and Murtagh could not tell if they were effective or not judging by the advance of the torches.

"Who is attacking us?" He asked Zidda, who still held his own beacon.

The boy frowned and shrugged.

"Someone who was able to muster enough strength to-" He broke off as the torchlights in the darkness began to _charge. _He dropped his own and gripped his sword with two hands, moving backwards as spearmen pushed forward to the front of the line. Murtagh did the same, falling back, and watched as a well-equipped man wielding a long wooden pike take his place. Murtagh heard barks of orders as Karem led his horsemen back as well, by the line of spear-men that was being formed. Murtagh couldn't see his face, but he saw the light colors trailing from his shoulder- the colors of Karem's people. Bright grey, green, and red.

It was the first squeal that confused him. But then he heard another. And a third. And all of the sudden there was an explosion of noise, as the sound of pigs filled the air with terror.

_Pigs were carrying the torches!_ Murtagh thought to himself as he saw a pig waddle into seeing distance, a dripping wax lamp wobbling on its back, tied to a thin stick that bent to its weight. There were hundreds of pigs, and once the pigs saw sight of the army, they turned and ran back into the darkness.

Murtagh didn't know who started laughing, but it spread like fire- soon the sound of squealing was replaced by hearty roars of merriment. Murtagh didn't share in their joy however- something was amiss...

The night suddenly was filled with the cries of a dying man as a file of horse charged in on their left flank. Men suddenly rushed to meet the horsemen as the attackers felled what spear-men they caught by surprise and disengaged. Bows were aimed, orders called, and chase taken, but in the end, the mounted invaders evaporated into the night.

And then the cries from behind began. Murtagh turned, first seeing Zidda, who was wide-eyed with fear, and then beyond him and other dusky faces as he saw a second attack occurring from the rear. Wails flushed the chilled draft of the night as Karem's men were cut down and killed. Murtagh then heard a horn bellow, and as he turned, he saw the first attackers returning: at the heels of a massive host of infantry. Stuck between the two foes, Murtagh and Zidda tried to find a place to stand their ground- but there was none. Confusion took Karem's army like flames take to dried wood. Murtagh raised his sword in defense, but there was none. He heard the sound of pounding hooves behind him, and when he revolved, he was met by the brute force of a metal-club like weapon. Before he lost consciousness , he heard the cries of the attackers.

"_For the Varden!" _


	15. Chapter 15

It was the howling wind that woke him. Murtagh started to rise, but found his wrists bound by thick cords of rope, and his head throbbed violently, sending ebbs of pain throughout his body. He lay back down on the hard floor, misery taking him.

It was dark.

He heard other men in the blackness, scared mutterings and slow, sad whimpers. He didn't dare look around, due to the pain in his head, but what was the point? They were blinded without light, and a foreboding sense seemed to cling to the cold air like bark to a tree.

_What happened?_ He began to ask himself, but he quickly remembered. Karem was attacked. By a group of people called the _Varden. _He had heard of them before- Galbatorix's lords would often trouble the king with details of the Varden's exploits, but Galbatorix seemed unconcerned with them. They were in open rebellion to the realm that Galbatorix created, and it seemed that in the capital, a day didn't pass where the Varden wasn't mentioned. A small raid on a Imperial posting, or the betrayal of one of the lesser Houses of the realm to the Varden's cause.

He began to feel tense. He was nothing more than a prisoner, now, but if they discovered who he was...

He expelled that thought. Whatever happens, Murtagh knew he had to tread carefully, stay out of sight, and be compliant if he wanted to survive. He had lived in the harsh southlands for a handful of years, and he was not about to be killed as a prisoner from a battle that meant nothing to him.

An eruption of cries came from the room, and it was then that Murtagh realized who he was imprisoned with.

He was here with Children of the Spire. They were to be Karem's future soldiers, culled from the surrounding settlements and honed into warriors. Zidda was among them, the son of a northern merchant and his Beyonder slave. The revelation gave Murtagh a spark of hope- perhaps they weren't to be killed if they had separated the youths from the main force. But it was still very possible that they would all be tried and executed. Armies have done even more horrific things in the past than butchering dozens of children and young men.

The sobbing continued, a gasping and gibbering cry that continued until a voice called for the crier to shut up. It was silent for a time, then, until suddenly a bright light filled the room. Murtagh's eyes were momentarily blinded as he felt a gush of air pass over him. He heard the rustling of movement, and orders being barked in the Beyonder's tongue and in the language of the North. As his vision leveled he was able to see who was in the room with him in the dim light- Red haired beyonders, aging from eight to nearly twenty years of age, being lifted from their bindings by Western Alagaesians and dark skinned men who had the look of the Beyonders, but instead of bright red hair, they had long flowing locks as dark as raven's feathers.

"Get up," A voice commanded, gruffly, as rough hands grasped his shoulders. As he was lifted, his head exploded in pain and Murtagh cried out, slumping in the man's grip and nearly falling back to the ground before being caught by the collar of his shirt.

"His head his wounded," He heard a voice say, and he recognized it as Zidda's. As his skull swam, he heard the conversation between his friend and one of the guards.

"You can speak Ulnar?" One of them asked.

"Yes, my father taught me when I was young, before he gave me away and returned to his lands."

"This one could prove useful. Bring him to the lords and to the king."

_King_? At first Murtagh thought they were talking about Galbatorix, but that was impossible. _Another King? _Pain and confusion found themselves as Murtagh was dragged from the cold room with the other boys. He was led down a hallway, the men holding him silent as their boots scraped across stone floor. The walls they passed were barren, but Murtagh could see that once they had carried great tapestries by the outline they had left behind. He was dragged ahead, and he saw the backs of men before him and could hear more at the rear. Escape would be neigh impossible in this fort, wherever he was.

They stopped before a pair of medium sized doors, hacked and scarred so that whatever picture they had worn was now nothing more than a series of violent slashes. The doors opened, and Murtagh, Zidda, and the Children of the Spire were led inside. The room was wide, but as large as Galbatorix's throne room, but big none the less. Naked walls lead to a simple throne, which was elevated from the main floor's level. On the throne sat a young man, no older than twenty, and to his left and right sat other men and women, each one wearing fine clothing. Knights baring colors of their House shared with a common sigil that all of them bore (Which Murtagh assumed was the sign of the Varden) stood at attendance, shining and brilliant.

One of the men that escorted them from the prison disengaged himself and approached the throne, and bowed.

"King Orrin, Son of the First Star and Lord of the Realm, Protector of the Sovereign Kingdom." The man said in a high and regal tone. King Orrin nodded, smiling.

"At ease, Ser. What is this you have brought me?" Orrin said. The man stumbled for a moment, unaware of what to say. A woman leaned into Orrin's ear and whispered something, to which Orrin laughed and waved his hand.

"Ah yes, the captives. I had forgotten." This new King rose from his throne and stepped down to the main level. A dusky skinned youth took stepped in with him. Tall and muscular, he had a flared nose and thin lips. Cleanly shaven, with long ebony hair that was partially shaved on both sides of his head, leaving a swathe of it to grow and reach all the way down to his waist.

Orrin grinned at the prisoners, looking at each of them with genuine interest.

"I have never seen Beyonders of your kind. It is true what they say- your hair truly is bright red, like demons." He said to them. Silence was his answer.

"They cannot understand me," He laughed again. "Well, it is better that they do not know what I have just said, isn't it?" He turned back to the elevated throne and people that were sitting by the empty seat nodded in approval.

"Nasudan, please, translate my words to these..._beings._" As Orrin spoke, he locked eyes with Murtagh. Murtagh looked away at once, but it was too late. The king had noticed him. Orrin stared at him for a long time, but then turned his gaze straight to the rest of the prisoners.

"I am King. The true King of Alagaesia." Orrin declared, and Nasudan spoke again, in the language of the Beyonders.

"You were once men belonging to Karem. But he is no more. I understand that you were slaves, forced to fight for his banner, and by extension, Galbatorix. But today, I relinquish you of that duty. Most kings would kill you, but I am not unkind. You will fight for me, and when we reclaim the throne, I promise you lands and titles." Orrin grinned as Nasuadon translated his statement. Some of the boys showed visible relief, and many of them were even smiling.

"All you must do is bow to me, and your sins will be forgiven, under the eyes of a King and his Gods." Orrin said. After Nasuadon translated, boys bowed, and Murtagh did as well, despite the pain in his head. His hair covered his face as he knelt.

"Rise. From this day forth, you are men of the Varden." Orrin smiled and clapped, and suddenly there was an orchestra of applause, the sound hitting Murtagh's ears like a cruel drum. Pain rattled his head, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. As the claps died down, Murtagh rose with the rest of the boys.

"It will be a hard war. Many of us will die. But we will win, I promise you. And this fine land, from the farthest northern holds to the deepest deserts will be ours!" Orrin cried, and shouts of joy and praise took up the air in the throne room. The sound was too much. Murtagh cried out in anguish, and fell to the ground as his head felt like it was being split in two. As his eyesight faded, he saw Orrin looking at him, a wry smile on his face.

_He thinks this is funny. _ Murtagh thought to himself, the last thought before his mind went blank in darkness.


	16. Chapter 16 (actual chapter)

_It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Everyone… Katrina… _

Sloan rolled on the blood-soaked dirt ground as the blazing fire that consumed his house warmed his back. He had been stabbed, and with every breath the deep wound that he was gifted throbbed in an explosion of pain. From underneath the curtain of his sweat-drenched hair, He saw soldiers of the Empire running from house to house, pulling out the inhabitants and killing them with no warning. Screams filled the night air as mounted men ran down fleeing children and women, and the smell of burnt flesh took up residence in Sloan's nose as his former villagemates burned. _It wasn't supposed to be like this… _The day had started off well. He woke early, and made his way across the grassy pasture to the Imperial military camp. He was dressed in his finest clothing, had combed his hair as best he could, and had even applied sweet-smelling perfumes that he had bought from a southlander. The guards had been hesitant to admit him, but when he said he had information regarding their search, they let him through.

"If you are lying, it is on your head." One of them had grumbled, and Sloan bowed and made his way past. Once Galbatorix made him a noble, he would make sure he would have that soldier scourged. The military camp was well-organized, with every man doing a task- some were cleaning, others training, and a few were gathered in semi-circles, resting on swords and axes and hammers as they poured over maps. He picked up various accents from their speech, and many of them spoke a tongue that he didn't understand. The soldiers sounded like they came from the near east, and others talked in a foreign tongue must have belonged to some Imperial states in the western coasts. A guard led him to a large tent, tan in color with two soldiers positioned at the mouth of it.

"Our Captain is inside. Tell him everything you know." The man instructed sternly as Sloan slid through. The Captain was seated before a medium sized table, a roast duck half eaten cooled before the man. He was muscular, with round shoulders and a thick neck. Long fingers wrote on a piece of parchment as pale eyes scanned the page from left to right. Sloan stood silently, until the Captain sighed and looked up with an annoyed expression.

"For the love of the god, sit down." He said, thrusting a fist towards the empty chair that sat on the other side of the table. Sloan did as he was told, noticing the congealing grease that formed underneath the man's breakfast. The Captain put down his quill and moved his paper to the side as he regarded Sloan with critical eyes.

"You have information; I'm assuming that's why you're here." The man said. Sloan nodded eagerly, and opened his mouth like a gaping fish.

"Before you begin, however, let it be known that any false leads will be dealt with. _Severely_."

Sloan smiled at that. He had seen a _dragon._ There could be nothing truer than that sight.

The man frowned at that, but nodded, and clasped his hands together, leaning forward.

"There was a drifter that came to Carvahall some weeks past, I'm sure you've been informed of him." Sloan started. The Captain nodded.

"Well, I never trusted him. So I see him and one of Garrow's adopted boys, Eragon, sneak off into the night. I followed them, and I swear to the gods and to the great king himself, I saw a _dragon. _A baby one. I know you told us that you were looking for a stone, but perhaps that stone was actually an egg? And it hatched?"

The Captain's eyes flew open and he moved closer to Sloan from across the table.

"What did you say. . ." He trailed off, and his neck seemed to bulge.

"I saw it. I saw a dragon." Sloan said confidently. The Captain stood and cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Gurnble! Get in here!" He screamed, and one of the guards from the opening of the tent appeared behind Sloan.

"Get the mage. And quickly." The Captain ordered, and Sloan heard Gurnble go running off. The Captain turned his eyes to Sloan.

"If you're lying to us. . . I will have you flayed and presented to the world impaled on a wooden stake." He said casually.

Sloan shuddered at the thought, but kept his composure.

"I promise you, I tell true." He vowed, and The Captain looked away from him and to the entrance of his tent, where Gurnble and the mage returned. Sloan turned to look at him. He was a middle-aged man, dressed plainly, with tattoos circling his forehead. Brown hair fell from his long face, and his hands were wrapped in black bandages.

"Is this the man?" The mage asked, and the Captain nodded.

"Yes. Do what you must."

The mage walked towards Sloan, and without warning, threw his hand towards the seated man, gripping his head in a deathly lock. Sloan felt as if someone was beating his head in with a club as the man forcibly rewound his mind, viewing his memories. Finally, he let go of Sloan, who slumped over in his seat, breathing heavily.

The mage wore a grim face.

"He speaks true. It was dark, but I saw it. The dragon. It is only a fledgling."

The tent was silent. Sloan coughed awkwardly.

"About my reward…" He began, only to be bellowed at by the Captain.

"_Reward?"_ The Captain screamed indignantly. "Take this moron out of my tent. Jalin, get me in contact with _Durza." _

Sloan was screaming and cursing as he was dragged from the tent and then to the boundary of the military camp. He stood there, demanding that the Captain see him once more, but when he was greeted by a soldier who threatened him with his blade, he swallowed his pride and returned to Carvahall. The rest of the day played out as usual: Working in his meat shop, dragging Katrina away from Roran when the bastard boy returned from his patrols, and glaring at Eragon, who was either talking to the stranger or Garrow. He knew their secret, and he smiled at that.

The soldiers would come here, and he was sure that they would all be killed. Then Katrina would be his, and when he was granted lordship, he would marry her to a great young man from one of the higher houses of the kingdom.

But then night came. And Imperial soldiers turned their swords on their own people. The last he saw of Katrina, she was being dragged away by Roran and some of the younger local recruits. Sloan had screamed and screamed, but the only answer he received was a sword plunged into his stomach, and a torch set to his house.

"Durza commanded to bring two survivors in the event that we fail to find the egg." A rough voice sounded over the cracking fire.

A man kicked Sloan over, and he screamed as his dull pain was flared again.

"I found one." He said with a toothy smile that glowed in the light of the inferno.


	17. Chapter 17 (deleted the announcement)

Eragon glared up at Brom as the man undid the ropes that bound his wrists. Eragon had been gagged, and the taste of the ash-stained cloth in his mouth made his throat ache. His dragon was curled around Brom's shoulders, which were soaked with rain and dirt.

"Now, don't be foolish. You nearly got us killed." Brom said with a grimace as he cut a tight knot with his knife. Eragon lurched forward as his bindings fell from his arms, rubbing his wrists. Eragon's dragon sniffed at him, and licked his nose delicately, her warm tongue sliding against his raw skin. Brom spoke truly. The men, _Imperial _men, attacked Carvahall the night before. Garrow had thought they were coming after Brom, and walked down into the town to reason with the soldiers.

He had been the first die. Or at least that is what he thought. He had not seen Garrow following the attack. Roran and the regional soldiers raised their weapons against their Imperial allies, but they were too few, too untrained. The Imperial shock troops cut them down like animals. Eragon did not see Roran after he went storming down into the town with his blade, ready to defend his people. He had told Eragon and Brom to hide, and then he vanished. He was most likely dead. Brom gathered his sword and took Eragon with him, planning to escape into the forest. Eragon had shouted and beat and screamed, attempting to return into the town and fight like Roran had.

"There is _nothing _you can do, you fool!" Brom had hissed at him as he swatted him with the heavy sheath of his sword. The blow had knocked Eragon to the floor, where Brom tied and gaged him, and then heaved the kicking youth over his shoulder as Brom walked to where Eragon had hid his dragon.

She came out willingly, pushing the wooden wall away from the tree, frightened. She had smelt the death coming from the town. Eragon had shouted a warning to her, but she took no heed, clinging closer to Brom, jumping up to wrap herself to his free arm. They marched throughout the entire night, even through the freezing rain that jumped from heavy leaves like springboards and landed on top of their heads. Despite himself, Eragon had fallen asleep from exhaustion, and now here he was, spitting out the gag that Brom had given him.

"I could have saved them." Eragon snarled as he looked at the moist ground below him. On his knees, he placed both hands to the forest floor, squeezing wet dirt between his fingers.

"I could have done _something!" _he cried again, and Brom's mouth twisted in anger.

"_Silence!_ You want them to find us, too? You could do nothing. Roran and Garrow sacrificed themselves for you, and you would throw that away? You do them no honor by running back like a child. Compose yourself or else I'll bind you again."

Eragon did silence himself for a time, morning air rushing through his hair as it rustled the leaves of thick trees. It was coming alive, the wood, tiny creatures chirping and gibbering to each other.

"Why?" He whispered. Brom raised his eyebrow and sighed.

"Why _what?_"

Eragon swallowed as he raised his head, tears wetting his checks.

"Why did they kill everyone? Why did you save me? I'm useless. Why. . . Why is this happening?" He broke down and began to sob, falling over and holding himself like a newborn as he rolled in his grief.

Brom watched him impassively for a moment, and then answered.

"Because you are a Dragon Rider. . . They massacred your town because you are a Dragon Rider, Eragon."

Eragon knew what Dragon Riders were, Knights of legend. They fought and maintained peace throughout the land, until the reign of Galbatorix. But all of that was drama for the high-born, he had been told, wars fought in the west and east that didn't concern the far northerners. They were isolated, and they always had been. Until now. Carvahall was gone. He had always imagined that he and his dragon would just live in peace, hiding away from Carvahall whenever the Empire came too close. But now, those dreams were destroyed, gone in the fire that burned his home.

"What do I do? Where do I go?" He asked Brom, rising from the ground, his back caked with mud.

"You will train with me. I will teach you what you need to know, Eragon. It will not be an easy path, and I cannot even guarantee your safety. I can only promise you one thing: Your life will never be the same." Brom shifted, hefting his sword across the back of his neck and turning away from Eragon.

"We need to go. We are not safe. We're still too close." He said brusquely as he marched forward. Eragon's dragon waited by him as he watched Brom disappear into the brush. Eragon wiped his eyes, muck spreading across his face as he did so. He rose to his feet, and followed Brom, the dragon padding next to him. The going was easy, for the most part. Northern forests were large, with massive trees that seemed as permanent as ancient castles. The land was flat between swathes of trees, large roots curling underneath a layer of earth. Brom offered no conversation, and aside from his heavy breathing, he was silent. Eragon's dragon filled his head with amazed statements, marveling at how vast the world was. Eragon found himself in the same state of mind, having lived in the small confines of Carvahall his entire life.

He knew the north was vast, but this large? It seemed endless. The trees continued forever, mute sentinels standing watch in a cold world. The ground sunk in with every step that Eragon took, and when he lifted his foot, he would often times find resistance as congealed mud locked his feet in a sloppy hold. They walked until the sun began to set behind the tips of evergreen pines, and camped in the elements, cold settling in on their shoulders.

"Could we have a fire?" Eragon asked as he rested his back against the trunk of a thick tree.

He held his dragon closer, grateful for her warmth. Brom was standing before them, focused on the surrounding forest as it sunk into darkness.

"No fires tonight." Brom turned towards Eragon and shrugged.

"I don't want to risk it. We are still close to your town." He sat down near Eragon, placing his sword down by his side.

Eragon huddled closer to his dragon.

"This cold is going to kill me.." He complained as his hands went numb from the elements. Brom laughed quietly.

"As a Dragon Rider, only the sword can kill you. Nothing else. You will grow weak if you do not eat, and cold if you are not warmed, and you will walk the line of death… but you will not truly die." Brom informed him almost casually.

The prospect shocked Eragon to the core.

"Are you saying that I am immortal?" He rasped, not believing what he said.

"Yes. Now get some sleep." Brom ordered, lying down on his back, ignoring the mud and the cold.

Eragon closed his eyes, amazed by what Brom had told him.

His live had truly changed, and it would never be the same.


	18. Chapter 18

Morzan was frowning at the table, despite the smell of honeyed meats and the sweetened wine that were laid out before him. He had no appetite, and he was annoyed by Galbatorix's good humor. The Forsworn were gathered around an ebony table that bore a vast buffet, meticulously prepared by Galbatorix's hand-picked chef. There was roast pig, drizzled with honey, fine fish baked until the skin was crispy and brown, warm bread that melted like butter within your mouth. All of the food mixed together, creating a plethora of smells that swam up to Morzan's nose. But he ignored all of the pleasantries, they meant nothing to him.

The Egg had hatched. An Imperial mage had scryed Durza, and the Shade in turn told Galbatorix himself, and the King waved off the news as if it was nothing.

"What danger does a fledgling Rider pose to us?" He had said, laughing. But Morzan remembered his dream. There was danger to be found with this new Rider, a danger that could mean the death of all that he and Galbatorix had sacrificed to achieve true peace. He shivered as he poked at his own meal, a modest cut of pig with bread, dipped in butter.

"Morzan, you've barely touched your food. Shall I help you feed it?" Alauinel said lustfully as her full lips pursed into a smile. She was full-figured, for an elf, and her ample breasts choked in a bodice that blossomed with cleavage. Morzan simply glared as the others laughed at Alauinel's jest. She had always desired him, and the fact that he rejected her for Selena only drove her lust.

"He's still brooding." _Galbatorix_ said with a wave. He lifted his cup with a dumb grin.

"More wine!" He cried, and in seconds a serving girl came and filled his chalice.

"Ah. One hundred years past and Morzan still enjoys his brooding…" Kinure giggled into his own cup as a lock of blond hair fell over his eyes. The Rider's hair had gotten even longer, to Morzan's disgust, nearly reaching his knees.

"Tell me, Morzan, how fares your Dragon? I hope he can forgive Gintoss… they did not part on good terms, like their Riders." Kinure placed his cup on the table and filled his mouth with baked fish.

"He fares well. I'm sure he harbors no ill will towards Gintoss. It is said that time heals all wounds." Morzan remembered the event like it was yesterday: Gintoss and his own dragon flying above Uru'baen, spitting fire and cutting each other with their massive talons. They had fought over who would mate with Caomhim's dragon, the only surviving female. In the end, it did not matter, as she died before either of them could mate with her, along with Selena, Caomhim, and Morzan's two infant sons.

"Dangerous things they are, Dragons." Farland spoke in a nasally voice that was grating and deep. He stroked his black beard, which bore streaks of white down the middle of it. He was as well built as ever, with massive arms and shoulders that were barely contained in his white tunic.

"Barrion was noting on how easy it would be to burn the cities we flew over down. I told him it would be unwise, and he agreed. One does not anger the king." Farland said with a smile as he lifted his cup to Galbatorix. The King grinned graciously, his handsome face beaming.

Hossa shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "We have lost the south, my lords. Karem has fallen."

Galbatorix eyed him with veiled rage.

"When were you planning on telling me?" He asked, leaning forward.

"I was just told by one of my own sorcerers. He scryed me as I shaved."

"Well? Who has taken Karem's holdings?" Galbatorix pressured. Hossa hesitated, thin black hands pulling at his collar.

"It was the Varden." He said finally, sighing greatly. A blanket of silence fell over them, and Morzan felt fear, so unfamiliar to him, creep up his neck and tighten. They had always heard reports of the Varden, a raid here, a theft there. The biggest blow they had given them was when the rebels acquired one of the dragon eggs, which was being moved from Uru'baen to Gil'ead, for Durza's study. Durza was forced to ride out and attain the egg, but failed in that regard, capturing only the elf, and killing her company.

"You should have killed the boy." Avela commented, his accent thick and rich, dark hair curling above his brow. When Galbatorix had killed the last king, a severe man named Larkin, he had spared the man's young son. The boy fled to Surda, where eventually he grew and was able to capture the region, which was weakly defended. He bore more sons, and now, nearly one hundred years later, small houses were flocking to the Varden, which was centered around placing the most recent Langfeld, Orrin, back on his rightful throne. The matter concerned Galbatorix little, who had practically given them Surda. He had beyonder tribes hassle the kingdom, keeping them busy, but now that Karem was defeated…

"We must take action, before they gain more strength. Karem's defeat will rally more to their cause. Some still remember the old Kingdom." Morzan said grimly. Alauinel nodded in agreement.

"More and more elves run into the arms of the rebels. It will not belong until they hold a session, in which all three races of elfkind will decide on a course of action," She flipped her hair as she spoke. "They still have not forgotten the damage I dealt them."

Alauinel had led legions of men into the far eastern lands, burning and killing all that lay before her. The elves were forced deeper into the east, into the uncut forests and cruel mountains. They had placed a spell on the land that Alauinel had won, however, and now it was nothing but a barren waste, unable to grow anything except thorns and mummified corpses.

Galbatorix cocked his eyebrows. "How do you know elves rally to the Varden?" Alauinel shrugged. "I see their tracks. I see where they hide. But when it comes to actually seeing _them, _they elude me. My keep lies on the edges of our Kingdom, and I often times patrol the deadlands. They pass, but I do not know when or where. They are coming through, and they are not heading here to pay homage."

Farland smashed his fist on the table. "Damn them!" He swore, snarling.

"The Varden cannot only be situated in Surda. There are more- Traitors among us. A minor House's holdfast… Mayhap even some larger Houses… those that bended the knee just to survive, but in the darkness still pray to the Old King…"

"Weed them out, then. It should be simple. A few hundred mages could-" Hossa began, smiling like a black devil. Morzan had to resist rolling his eyes. Where magic was involved, Hossa found his joy. He believed that everything could be solved with a spell.

"That would take time and resources. Not to mention it would probably garner more support among the lesser houses. We need to crush them on the battlefield in open war. Destroy their spirit." Morzan spoke loudly so all could hear. Galbatorix nodded his head slowly, agreeing with Morzan.

"Yes, that is the way. The Varden no doubt will plan to attack soon. We shall let them gather strength, for the time being. Then, when they think they are ready, we will crush them." Galbatorix picked up his glass and broke it between his fingers as demonstration, not wincing as the sharp shards cut through his fingers. The Forsworn clapped then, all but Morzan. Somehow, he knew that this rebellion would not be quelled by winning one battle.

_Who could the egg possibly have hatched for?  
who? _The thought troubled him to no end.


	19. Chapter 19

Roran's eyes ached as Katrina's chest softly rose underneath a thin blanket. It was early morning, and it already seemed warmer than it had been the previous days, when hard rain had fallen upon them without break. They were muddy and damp, and Roran had spent the previous night shivering as his wet clothing clung to him like a second layer of icy skin. They were in the southern reaches of the north, far away from Carvahall, far away from home.

His heart ached for Garrow, for Eragon. It was only a moment, however, until he set his feelings to stone. He didn't have time to mourn, not yet. He had to get Katrina to safety. Only then would he allow his tears to fall for his family. But not now. He heard steps behind him, heavy boots sinking in the drying mud, sloppy wet sucking sounds that came from footprints that half filled with water when the boot left them.

"Roran, we need to go. Tyle says he saw riders going north last night when he was on watch." Roran turned, and Glann drew in his breath, taking in the severity of Roran's appearance. They all looked beat, with dirty clothing and gaunt faces, the result of sleeping in dirt and eating nothing but a few scraps of dried meat. Some days they didn't eat at all, attempting to save their meager stores. Glann had been able to gather what he could from Sloan's old shop in the carnage, but the bag that was filled with food was now depressed and nearly empty, and the dried meat was hard and cold.

"They headed north. We are still in the north, but we are going the opposite direction." Roran turned his attention back to Katrina.

"Roran . . ." Glann started, causing Roran to whip his head around and glare at the young man.

"She _needs _her rest." He said sternly, but Glann refused to back down.

"Everyone needs rest. But rest is not something we can afford. We are only a group of eight. You saw what they did to Carvahall. If we are spotted. . ." Glann didn't need to finish for Roran to understand what he was saying. Imperial riders would likely run them down, without even bothering to question who they were. And each passing day, they had seen more and more of them.

"Ten more minutes." Roran compromised, and Glann frowned, but nodded, turning away and walking off, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The rest of their group slowly began to rise as Glann waked them, Groaning and stretching, wiping the mud off of their faces and finding their swords. Aside from Glann, Tyl, Roran, and Katrina, there was Holde, a dark stocky youth who was strong, but rather short. Kenly; who had light brown hair and severe blue eyes, Frantis, an older man of about thirty who was skilled with the bow. Last came Yoslan, who had been their Regional Commander. All of them belonged to Carvahall's imperial militia, a local militia tasked by some northern lord to protect the remote town. They had been imperial soldiers to a sense, and were proud of the colors they wore. But not anymore. Their friends, within the militia and the town were dead, killed by their own allies. If it hadn't been for Yoslan, Roran doubted any of them would be alive.

The man had been the first to react to the attack. He roused the militia, and they put up a great fight, but in the end, it was fruitless. The Imperial troops had better arms and shielding, and a number of them were mounted. Yoslan was the one who harried them to safety, Roran at that point dragging Katrina, who had fainted at the carnage. Roran was glad- She didn't see them stab her father. He had no love for the man, but he didn't wish Sloan dead. But now he was, just like the rest of them. He hadn't seen Garrow or Eragon during the attack, but he knew the chances were slim. They were dead- It was better to acknowledge that fact than cling on a desperate piece of childish hope.

Roran was nearly a man grown, and now he had someone to take care of.

Almost as if she could feel his thoughts, Katrina stirred, moaning softly. Her eyes opened, and the whites of them were as red as blood. Her face was a sickly white, and her lips were colored faintly blue. She was dreadfully sick, and Roran wasn't sure she would survive another week in this weather. It was warmer today, but that meant nothing. It could very easily begin pouring again the next day. Summer was ending, and Roran could feel the cold of the coming dread months.

"I slept unwell.." Katrina rasped as she lifted herself. Her hair was in disarray, packed with dirt and hubris. Roran ran a hand through her locks, and it gave way to his hand grudgingly, unwilling to untangle. She smiled weakly up to him.

"Katrina. . . I promise you, you will feel well soon. You will sleep on a soft feather bed, and eat warm food. But now we have to keep moving." He spoke softly to her, and she grabbed his arm as she tried to rise. He rose to his full height, carrying her upwards as he did so. They were in an empty forest, riddled with trees much smaller than the ones that were further up north. Sometimes they would walk for dozens of feet without coming across a swathe of timber, as if someone had cleared an area for a small home, and then never built it. There was no sound in these woods, no birds, but dozens of insects. Even at this early hour, bugs bombed around Roran's eyes, forcing him to swat them away with grimy hands.

"Everyone ready? We're about to move out." Yoslan's gruff voice informed. Roran helped Katrina to walk over to the group, where the rest of the former soldiers stood. The morning sun was high in the sky as they left the cover of the forest. A brown land of high hills stretched before them, And Roran held Katrina's hand as they walked. She looked weaker and weaker every day, and Roran knew if they didn't find solace soon, she would die.


	20. Chapter 20

Murtagh's head felt as if it had been split in two. For the past few weeks, he had been slipping in and out of consciousness, those talking and standing around him blurring in a bright blend of color whenever he opened his eyes. He couldn't tell dream from reality, and often woke to violent spasms, and they would continue until something held him down and murmured comforting things to him. But as time passed, they subsided. Still, he slept and recovered. Some moments he felt himself being moved, and others, he could taste sweet wine and thick milk on his tongue. These were short periods between what seemed like ages of monotony and darkness. Murtagh felt aware at one point, and then at others he felt as if his mind was being pulled from his body. When he opened his eyes he saw things, impossible things. His mother; who was long dead, smiling down at him and stroking his hair. He would see his father; Morzan, as well, standing in the corner of what seemed to be in the white he was kept, his arms folded and his eyes dark and grim.

For Murtagh, it seemed like thousands of years until the darkness was gone.

"Are you alright? You were speaking. . ." A voice said as Murtagh felt his skin pull away around his eyes. A sticky substance had clung to his forehead, which had obscured his eyesight. He was blinded almost instantly, and he saw gray shapes shifting before him.

"Don't crowd him! He's been in that bed for nearly two _months!_" A low-pitched voice bellowed.

"I wasn't _crowding._"

A man's face appeared before him. He was old, with red skin that was creased with lines of age. His hair was a dusky blonde color, thick and braided. A small mouth sat underneath a hooked nose, and his eyebrows were arched in analysis, blue eyes wide with interest. Behind him, a girl stood, wearing a frown on her face. She was similarly colored, and wore a simple white blouse that seemed to travel all the way down to her ankles.

"Ah, good. You're actually awake." The man said gruffly.

"Eat this." He commanded, and nearly forced a spoonful of sweetened milk into Murtagh's mouth. He swallowed in surprise, pressing his head back against his pillow.

"You were dangerously wounded when you came here. You took a blow to the head. You would have died if I hadn't been able to work on you as I have. You should be fine now . . . but you may experience crippling headaches in the future. But it is a small price to pay for life, in my opinion."

Murtagh remembered the mace that had fallen on him the day of the attack on Karem's holding. It was then he realized who he was still with.

_The Varden. _

Murtagh felt restless.

"Can I walk?" He asked politely, his mouth felt strange when he moved it.

"I don't see why not. If you feel any strong pain, come back to me. You are to report to the King, he wanted to see you as soon as you wakened. There will be men to escort you." The doctor left him at that. Murtagh furrowed his brows. What could Orrin want with him? Is it possible that the King knew who he was? It was entirely likely that a mage had sifted through his memories while he was indisposed. . . but would these people kill an innocent man? He was Morzan's son, but he had done no wrongs to the Varden or attempted to halt their cause. The girl who was in the room before returned, and with a fresh set of clothes. Murtagh thanked her and rose from the bed.

He was aware of her eyes as they looked at his body, which was bare from the waist up. Scars covered his chest and back, faded red and black and purple. Some were simply straight cuts that healed over time, others were zigzagging trails that knotted and curled his skin when they had healed. He ignored her gaze, however, and she left the room, allowing him to dress.

Murtagh pulled the shirt over his body and changed into the fresh pair of trousers. The new clothing felt good on his dry skin. His head was dizzy for a moment, but he was able to regain his composure. He left the room, taking a deep breath as he did. As the doctor had promised, there was an armed man waiting for him. He wore a boiled leather raiment, pained in Varden colors, along with a sigil that he did not recognize, a flying horse. His hand was on the pommel of his sword as he looked at Murtagh with zero interest.

"King Orrin has summoned you." He said simply. Murtagh's stomach growled.

"Is it possible that I may eat some food before I am presented to the King?" Murtagh inquired. He was in no hurry to see Orrin, and he _was _hungry. He felt thinner, vapid somehow. The clothes he was loaned felt good, but he didn't like the way they hung from his body.

"Food will be provided." The man responded slightly unkindly. Murtagh took the hint and remained silent as they walked through the stone keep. The Varden had made this place theirs- The walls, which were barren the last time Murtagh had seen them, were covered with paintings. Banners lined the empty spaces, and Murtagh recognized a few sigils- houses that had been under the Empire's control. How many had secretly rebelled against Galbatorix?

It wasn't long before he came to that familiar wooden double-door, and he was surprised to still see it scratched and battered. Two men stood before the doors, and opened them for Murtagh and his escort. They walked inside, and instantly the smell of bread and meat hit Murtagh's nose, making his mouth water and his stomach unruly with noise.

Orrin's borrowed hall was empty compared to when Murtagh had last seen it. A table had been prepared, below the raised incline of stone where the King's throne sat beautifully. Instead, Orrin was seated at the head of the feasting table, which was covered from beginning to end with various foods: Roast duck and chicken, a spicy-smelling meatloaf, buttered bread, grapes and dark wine and barbequed pig, the kind where the swine was whole, with a juicy apple stuck between its teeth.

Murtagh had to restrain himself from running towards the table. King Orrin lifted his eyes to the two men.

"Ah, so you've finally woken. In good time too, I've just begun dinner." He said as he popped a slice of ham into his mouth. He motioned towards Murtagh with a fork.

"Come, come! Sit. _Eat._" He commanded. The guard led Murtagh to a chair, and then bowed towards King Orrin, and finally took his leave of them. Murtagh said directly in front of the King, but the small mountain of food between them made Orrin hard to see. Murtagh didn't know where to start. There was a plate before him, complete with cutting utensils and an empty cup, but it was then he noticed that there were dozens of empty plates around him.

"Will more be joining us?" Murtagh asked as a servingman filled his cup. Orrin shook his head, his eyes raised above the roast pig.

"Yes. For my advisors. Though I tire of eating with them as of late, so I take my meals first. That would explain the amount of food, it would seem!" Orrin laughed at his own jest.

"I'm a king, not a glutton. But sometimes those two things become one in the same." Murtagh ripped into a duck, one of the several that were scattered about the table. He took the closest one to him, taking two legs and a wing. He then retrieved three thick slices of bread, using one slice to soak up the grease on his hands and then took to eating it.

There was never a silent moment. Orrin talked about his youth, his training, and the victories over the Beyonders. He never stopped prattling, and he loved focusing on himself. If he wasn't talking about himself directly, he was focused on his name, his family, and their achievements. His great-great-great-great grandfather, Ulron The Wizened, had stopped a host of Urgals from invading the west lands as they marched down the North. Ulron's younger brother, Kyun, had built a great keep that had served Lords in the south faithfully until it was destroyed in the Rider Rebellion.

"One of my ancestors was a Rider. His name was Yonrin. They said he had a great dragon, brilliant and yellow, with four legs AND wings. A dragon with four legs is very rare." Murtagh had to keep from rolling his eyes. Galbatorix had told him everything he had wanted to know about dragons when he was young. His father, however, wanted nothing to do with dragons, and wished his son the same.

Murtagh remembered one day when Galbatorix was humoring him with a story that Murtagh had asked him why Morzan hated speaking of dragons.

Galbatorix had paused for a moment, reflecting.

"I suppose you're old enough to know. Besides, your father has never spared the worst from you."

Murtagh agreed silently. His scars still seethed pink pus, despite having received them years ago, when Morzan had left.

"He hates dragons because they remind him of betrayal. They remind him of Selena, and worse, Caomhim. They remind him of his two sons, your two dead brothers. When he sees a dragon, he sees not a majestic animal, but a dark beast. He killed Caomhim's dragon himself, and killed your mother in the process."

After he had told Murtagh that, Galbatorix rose abruptly, leaving Morzan to his quarters. Before he left, Murtagh squeaked one last question.

"What was his name? the dragon he killed?"  
Galbatorix answered without turning.

"_Her_ name. And it was Saphira. A beautiful name for a beautiful dragon."

Murtagh found himself back in the present, Orrin's voice still going on and on.

". . . So do you agree?" He asked. Murtagh frowned.

"Agree to what?"

"Oh- I've been talking to the deaf, it seems! Long story short, my friend, the spire children all say that you are the best fighter among them. Granted, you are weak from recuperation, but a few good meals and training will put you back on track. I plan to have you escort one of my advisor's daughter to the dwarf keepings in the mountains. You will be well prepared, supplied and rested. The best horses of the realm will be underneath you. And better yet, if you are successful in getting there, you will become part of my personal guard."

Orrin paused to let that sink in, but Murtagh had no desire to be a guard for this fool.

"There will be lordships in it for you, of course. Lands and titles that will be passed onto your children," Orrin added hastily. Murtagh had to keep from laughing. He remembered that Orrin had promised him a lordship earlier, along with all of the captured Spire children.

"Why the dwarves?" Murtagh had only seen a dwarf once before. He had expected a stout little man with a thick nose and large neck, standing at best maybe 4 feet- But what he saw disappointed him. Dwarves were a little more than five feet tall, and at their tallest, they stood as high as the average man. What set them apart, however, was their six fingered hands and sculpted muscle. Unlike men, Dwaves were born with it, and had to do little to no work in order to gain strength.

"I am trying to broker a peace with them. They are no friends of Galbatorix, I'll tell you that. We have arms now but. . . . It's going to take more than that to defeat Galbatorix and his dragon. Not to mention the mighty houses that still stand with him."

Murtagh cringed. Galbatorix's dragon.

_Shurikan, the black dread. _

"However, I am not done here. I need to settle my forces, regroup, resupply, and then anoint someone to preside as Lord of the Realm while I am away. I plan on meeting up with you, but I cannot wait here until the army is ready, and I cannot leave with a party, because I am needed. The Dwarves have no patience, and refuse to give me the time I require. Therefore, I am sending a speaker in my stead."

Murtagh assumed that was wise, for Orrin, anyway.

"Who is she?"

"Daughter of the deep southman Ajihad, sister to Nasuadon, Nasuada."

Murtagh vaguely remembered the stone-faced Nasuadon, who acted as translator for Orrin. His hair had been of interest, shaved on both sides but long down the middle, falling down the back of his head like a reversed waterfall.

"I have never seen Ajihad or this Nasuada."  
Orrin grinned. "Ajihad is a great man, big and strong. Nasuada. . . she is _big, _but in the way a man wants her to be."

Murtagh grimaced at Orrin's vulgarity.

"So she's beautiful, then?"

Orrin shrugged as he smacked his lips. He was done with his meal.

"Only in a way a savage can be. I wouldn't make her queen, but perhaps she could be my concubine after the war. I'd fill her with my seed, give her some sons with royal blood. My blood _is _royal, you know."

Before Murtagh could respond, Orrin rose from his seat.

"I enjoyed this meal, Sir. You had better rest. Your training begins tomorrow, and you will want to be as well prepared as possible. Outside these walls, this world is very dangerous, and full of evil."

Murtagh was brought to a new room, which was larger and far more comfortable. A feather bed waited for him, wide with thick blankets and pillows.

He went to sleep thinking of Nasuada, the girl he was now bound to protect, so that she could conspire with Dwarves to overthrow the kingdom of a man who had given him much. Despite his grim musings, Murtagh slept well.


	21. Chapter 21 (Part 1)

"Who was the Rider of Dawn, the one who drove the Dwarven Lords back to their mountain holdings?"

Eragon furrowed his brow as he strained to keep the rock floating above his palm. Brom looked at him intently, waiting for his answer. "Varlyn Darke, he belonged to the dragon Ormonder, and was heir to House Darke of the eastern lands . . . until an egg hatched for him, forcing him to join the order and revoke his birthright. His cousin Tenary Larken inherited the lands, and Varlyn ended up being the one to put down the rebellion that occurred seven hundred years later, Tenary's descendant Varyn Fort." Eragon felt sweat drip trickle from his brow and onto his nose and cheeks. The rock wavered, but remained afloat. Brom nodded in approval, leaning on his sword as he sat.

"Good. Good. Now, who was the first Rider?" Brom leaned forward with a smile. Eragon scoffed, but as he did so the rock nearly fell into the palm of his hand. He grunted and focused on it again, and slowly it began to rise once more.

"That one is easy. Rayun'haurtubbi of the brown wood; hero of the age of mourning and founder of the Riders . . . he lived for thousands of years, until he ended his own life." Eragon felt sad then, death reminding him of Garrow and Roran. He had accepted their deaths, but often he found himself crying in the night, remembering their faces and love. He lost his concentration then, and the rock landed heavily on his palm.

Brom sighed, and rose to his feet, using his sword as leverage. "That was the longest you've lasted, Eragon. As your Rider powers mature, you'll find you will have more magical stamina, and other facets of your body will improve as well. I see Saphira is growing strong, as well."

Brom smiled at the blue dragon, which splashed in the shallow river that lay beside them. Eragon had decided to name her Saphira after Brom had begun educating him about the Riders. It was an old name, dating back years upon years of generations of Riders. Eragon loved it when Brom told him his heritage. He could see it- the Riders in all of their glory, with shining blades and roaring dragons. He had spoken of that to Brom, and the man suddenly had taken a very sad face.

"That is why they fell, the very statement you just said. The Riders . . . they became obsessed with war and glory, until they oppressed the very people they swore to protect." The night Brom had said that to him, the fire between them seemed to glow, and Eragon, for the first time, saw violence in the man's eyes. But Eragon was in the present now, wishing he had warmer clothes. They had come across various small towns on their journey, staying away from holdfasts and larger villages. They begged for food and begged for clothing, and often they were rebuked, but some kind souls had given them slightly molded fur cloaks, and others small bags of dried meat and bread. Still, it seemed to be getting colder every day, and night fell upon them quickly and brutally, devouring the light and leaving them party to whatever dark beings watched from the cloak of night. They had been safe, for the most part, during their journey they came across little to no people, and when they did, Brom often saw them first, giving Eragon ample time to hide Saphira. His eyes drifted to his dragon.

She _had _gotten larger. She was the size of a medium sized dog, now, and had proved to be a better hunter than Brom and Eragon combined. She was the one who gathered food for them, finding fat rabbits who hid in their dens, and gathering piles of squirrels that melted in your mouth when roasted by Brom. They traveled by the side of the Ninor river, which thickened and swallowed and deepened at random intervals. Despite the cold, Brom and Eragon would often bathe in the river, attempting to stave off the collecting dirt and grime that ruined their appearances. Eragon knew he looked a mess- His hair had gotten unruly and long, reaching his cheeks. He felt wisps of hair growing under his nose and around his jaw, and often had laughed when he compared his facial hair to Brom's. The man's beard had grown exceptionally, and it seemed to get longer as the man's body revived before Eragon's eyes. He was a totally different man than the one his brother had found in the valley; that much was sure.

The morning turned into noon as they walked ahead, the river following them across a screen of old trees. The trees were all naked, having dropped their leaves, making them look menacing and dangerous as branches spread out to the sky, grasping and thin. Their pace was moderate, and Eragon could tell they had traveled far from Carvahall. They were in the last reaches of the North, Brom had said earlier, and once they started further south they would gain a quick respite from the cold, before those lands were met with a deeper chill. Eragon noticed that things seemed smaller the further they traveled. Trees mostly, in the North they were massive guardians, great and powerful, green all year, with roots as big as a man's leg and some even bigger than that. Brom had said that was because the North was mostly untouched by time, whereas the other areas of Alagaesia had been put under test by war and industry. Eragon looked at the man's back now, watching as the hilt of Brom's sword shined darkly in the light of the sun. Eragon was always taken away by the blade- It was beautiful, but yet there was a sense of dread around it, an aura that he could not understand. The hilt; a dragon with an open maw, with jewel eyes and a pointed pommel, was imposing. Eragon had never seen the actual blade, that part of the sword hidden in Brom's makeshift sheath, a bastardly combination of wool, wood, and rope.

The man never drew the blade, not even to sharpen it, but he did answer some of Eragon's questions about the weapon.

"All Rider's blades are unique." He had said. "They are made with magic, and share components with their wielder. Any man can pick up a Rider's blade, but he will often find it unwieldy, hard to handle and strangely weighted. That is because the sword _knows _who it belongs to. They are no ordinary weapons." Eragon had asked Brom if another Rider could use a blade that belonged to another of their order, and he said it was possible, though it was still best to use your own sword.

"The Rider Jaloin took his brother's blade after he was ambushed and killed by Dwarves. He fought in the Dwarven wars. They say he was adept with his borrowed blade, but he was killed, in the end. The Dwarves were dangerous fighters, and back then there were much more of them." Brom had often spoken of Dwarves with distaste, and Eragon could see the man did not like them. He tried to shy away from the subject, but his curiosity tugged at him, wanting to know more. Saphira talked much, speaking to both Brom and Eragon, her voice deepening. She had matured fast, and Eragon was startled at how articulate the dragon had become, and how insightful she was. She could fly now, large and strong wings carrying her into the air. Brom had said it would be a long time before Eragon himself could ride her.

"It takes years for Dragons to mature, and they never stop growing. In two years, you will be able to soar with her in the air, but she would be no larger than a horse. Dragons who have lived for centuries often dwarfed castles."


	22. Chapter 21 (Part 2)

Eragon was disappointed somewhat. He had expected Saphira to quickly blossom into a fearsome beast, but he knew such wishes were juvenile. Dragons, like all large creatures, grew slowly.

"You know a lot about dragons." Eragon said conversationally as they walked. Dead leaves crunched under their boots, which were covered in dried mud. Eragon saw grey clouds moving in covering the sun, and he wasn't sure he liked the prospect of enduring another cold rain.

"Where are we going?" He asked, after Brom refused to answer his first question. The man stopped then, and Eragon nearly bumped into him, the jewel eye of Brom's sword staring at the boy with animosity. Brom turned his face, shadowed with annoyance with eyes as sharp as steel. He grimaced, and spat onto the cold ground.

"I figured I would have to tell you at some point. We're going to the _Varden._ It is the only safe haven in Alagaesia for you and Saphira." At the sound of her name, Saphira huddled closer to the two humans. Her long neck rubbed against Eragon's upper leg, and her wings flexed in excitement.

_The Varden? Who are they? _She asked Brom, Eragon hearing her question as if it was his own.

Brom's mouth twisted, and he spat yet again at the ground.

"They are a coalition of lords who want to usurp the current king, Galbatorix, and place a descendent of House Langfeld back on the throne. The Langfelds had ruled for thousands of years before the war."

Eragon frowned.

"How do you know they will accept me? How are they any less dangerous than the Empire?"

"Because you're a rider. Right now, Galbatorix and his highest ranking generals, the remaining Forsworn, all have their own dragons. You also have a reason to fight against the Empire, due to the death of your family and the destruction of your town. They will accept you and your dragon." Eragon looked at Saphira, who raised her head to him in turn.

_I do not believe we have a choice. Either we go with him to the Varden, or we die at the hands of the Empire _Sahpira reasoned, and Eragon nodded in agreement. She spoke truly. They had nowhere else to go, nowhere else to hide. There was no other alternative.

"I'll go. We'll go." He said quickly, strength blossoming in his voice. Brom nodded in approval.

"You have no other choice, do you?" He said with a sour grin. Eragon bowed his head, and Brom walked on ahead. Eragon faltered, the question he had been wanting to ask for days building up in his throat until it finally came bursting out-

"Were you a Rider?" He asked, blurting.

_Eragon!_ Saphira scolded, but he continued on, stepping forward.

"It's true though, isn't it? That's how you know so much about dragons . . . the wars . . . and that _sword_, it's a riders blade, is it not?" Eragon said breathlessly. Brom remained silent, but had stopped moving. A breeze sauntered through, rustling vile-looking branches and swirling ancient leaves around their feet. Eragon's long hair waved into his eyes, and he looked at Brom through a light-brown veil.

"Aye. I was." Brom said finally, his voice heavy. Eragon did not know if it was sadness or anger, and he finally settled on the possibility that it may have been _both. _

"What happened to your dragon?"

"She died some time ago."

Brom breathed deeply, and began to speak.

"It all started with a girl. A Rider. Beautiful. Her name was Alyenne. She was from a noble house . . . the Tarsors or the Vines, I forget which one exactly. Sweet and gentle, she was every man's dream. She . . . she was sent by the Lord Rider, who controlled and led the Riders, to treat with the Dwarves. A new merchant family had inherited the kingship, and he thought it prudent to gloss over past transgressions. Dwarves are long-lived, and they never forget when they are slighted.

She went alone, astride her dragon, Faythym. When she reached the mountain passes, two massive hosts of Dwarven armies waited for her. Don't believe the stories you read as a child- Dwarves are not shorter than regular men, and they're stronger, much stronger. Brutal creatures. They shot her down with silver-tipped arrows, a metal that is known to hurt dragons more than steel or iron or bronze. Her dragon hit the ground breathing its last breath, but she still lived. The leader of the attack, a Dwarf named Orgian Jaystark, killed her himself, cutting off her head and _eating _her dragon. After the attack, I believe he changed his name to _Dragonfeller."_

Galbatorix . . . he was young then, for a Rider, anyway. As was I. He _loved _ her, and demanded justice. The Lord Rider sent word to the Dwarf King, who _refused _to release Orgian to us, due to the fact that the King was related to Orgian, through his mother's line. The Lord Rider wanted to avert war . . . and they both settled on sending a Dwarven proxy to face justice. Galbatorix was incensed. He saw no point in ending a life that was not guilty of a crime. He took it upon himself to get revenge."

He flew with his closest companions, some of which would later lead his armies in conquest. They ravaged the mountain passes, burning and killing Dwarf villages that were above ground. Orgian, still drunk off of his murder, raised his host and met Galbatorix on the field of battle. He had Alyenne's hand dangling around his neck, and her skull decorated his spear. Galbatorix challenged him to single combat. Orgian agreed, as long as Galbatorix refrain from using magic. Galbatorix simply killed him with a powerful spell, saying that the Dwarf did not deserve the honor of his compliance. He then continued to shatter Orgian's host, killing hundreds of young dwarven nobles. He and his allies flew back home, only to be put under arrest by several Riders waiting for them. The young dwarf King demanded that Galbatorix be executed by threat of war, already calling his banners from underneath the mountain pass."

Galbatorix fled his former allies, finding solace in the keep of Lord Hosteaux, who was a descendant of Galbatorix's brother, long dead. The Langfeld King demanded that Hosteaux deliver Galbatorix, and Hosteaux refused, saying he would die before that happened. Bannermen loyal to the king rose to attack Hosteaux's keep, and Hosteaux, with Galbatorix, were able to throw them off. Riders who sympathized with Galbatorix joined him in his defense, and smaller lordlings loyal to House Hosteaux answered their Lord's call. Soon, the entire realm was engulfed in a bloody war. It raged for ten years, and during that time Galbatorix went from fighting a defensive war, to becoming a conqueror. Human Houses joined him, seeing his power. He waged war on the Dwarves, killing their king and forcing them to abandon the richest of their holdfasts, taking their gold for himself. He then turned to the Elves, who had been aiding the Langfelds. At the end of the war, Galbatorix found himself king, his enemies scattered, and his rule absolute. Here we are now, on the brink of yet another war."

Eragon was stunned. He had read about the war before, but most of the tales he gleaned were either myth, or flat out false. He had no idea that Alagaesia was filled with such bloodshed. He also found himself sympathetic to Galbatorix . . . he had never been in love, truly, but the lack of justice was there for anyone to see. Eragon was unsure if he would have fought against Galbatorix then.

"Who did you fight for?" Eragon asked. Brom glared at him, brimming with rage.

"Galbatorix rewarded those loyal to him. Does it look like I fought for the man?" He asked, and Eragon shook his head.

"Enough questions then. Keep walking. I want to cover ground before dusk."

And so Eragon walked.


	23. Chapter 22

KING Orrin placed a hand above his eyes, blocking the wretched sun from his face. It was _hot, _and despite wearing the light-cloth garments of the savages who lived here, he found himself sweating profusely, his clothing getting wet and sticking to him as if he had bathed fully robed a few moments earlier. He sat on a makeshift throne thrown up among the sandy land of Surda. Dunes replaced hills and dirt took the place of grass. The ring of metal hitting metal filled his ears, and he turned his attention back on the new recruits, who were training with his Master of Arms, Kineth. His eyes were drawn to Murtagh, the sullen and dark haired youth he had liberated from Karem. The boy was fast, very well trained, the dulled blade that he held in his hand swung about him as naturally as if it were a part of his body, and his long hair only added to his magnificence. Beside him, Nasuadon and his sister, Nasuada sat, each one wearing regal clothing that befit their positions within the Varden. They were both the children of Ajihad, a wealthy and influential beyonder king. To Orrin's chagrin, Nasuada's ample shaping was modestly covered by a tan cloak, while Nasuadon himself wore a netted tunic, the cloak of the _Dusk Rangers_ clasped at his shoulder with an iron pin. His unusual hair was curled around his neck and snaked all the way down into his lap, while his ebony skull, shaven on both sides, shined in the glare of Surda's oppressive sun.

"He's good." Nasuadon commented as Murtagh disarmed fellow recruit with a swift sword blow to the man's wrist. He then advanced on the second, who jabbed at him with a wooden spear, the tip wrapped in thick cloth. Murtagh weaved in and out and between, the shaft passing harmlessly by his face as he did so. He was suddenly upon the man, and hit him across the stomach with the broadside of his sword. The man yelped and fell over, to the disbelief of Kineth, who was red-faced and growling.

"You're all worthless!" He cried, picking up the downed man with a heavy fist. "Get up! _Get up! Your King is watching!" _ he bellowed, and the man slowly got to his feet, while Murtagh looked on sullenly, his handsome face a mask hiding his true emotions. Orrin store a glance at Nasuada, who was also focused on the dark youth. Orrin frowned to himself, and then smiled, putting on his best face.

"Nasuada, I-" He began, but once she locked eyes with Orrin, she cut him off.

"Is he the one who will be traveling with me?" She asked. Nasuada had a deep voice, beautiful and powerful at the same time. Orrin faltered slightly, repositioning his crown so that it shined in the sun.

"Well, yes, but if he isn't to your liking I can easily have him replaced-"

"He is to my liking." Nasuada said simply, and offered no more conversation. Her eyes returned to Murtagh, and Orrin noticed how well the man's hair framed his face, how his movements revealed the lean muscle underneath his tunic, drenched in sweat and dirt . . . Orrin suddenly felt very weak my comparison. It wasn't fair, however. Murtagh only looked good because he was fighting green men, natives and third and fourth sons from the mainland who followed him, looking for glory. Orrin was _King, _and the fact that Nasuada showed this much interest in a man who was not only baseborn but more importantly less powerful than himself irritated him. There was a cheer as Murtagh ducked out of the way from a jabbing spear, and then swirled in the dirt, his spinning blade knocking the spear out of his opponent's hand. The more seasoned warriors who watched clapped with approval, and Orrin looked at Nasuada, who had the sense not to clap but _smiled. _

"Squire," He called, and in moments a brown haired youth of twelve years came running to him.

"Fetch me my blade." Orrin ordered.

"The-the one with the jewels or-"The squire stammered, and Orrin waved his hand, wearing an annoyed smile, "Any will do. Just hurry now." He said, and his squire ran off, dust trailing behind him.

Nasuadon raised a finely trimmed eyebrow.

"What is the meaning of this?" He asked. Orrin tried not to look at Nasuada as he answered her brother.

"Murtagh is good, and deserves better than whelps to train with. I shall fight him."

"My lord, give me the honor of fighting for you." Nasuadon asked. Orrin had no doubt that the man could beat Murtagh, but there would be no point to it. Orrin had to fight him himself. He had to put down Murtagh before the man gained too much influence. And Nasuada . . . He didn't know why he _cared; _He didn't even love her, not truly, but still . . .

His squire returned, and Orrin rose to meet him, taking his blade. The boy had chosen Orrin's jeweled blade, the one with the lion's hilt and pommel that ended in a circled ruby, wrapped in gold. Orrin wrapped his hands around hilt, and began his stride down into the training camp. He could hear Nasuadon calling after him, saying he didn't have to do this, but Orrin ignored the man. He didn't understand. He was a savage, and did not recognize when a man had to defend his honor.

Members of the army, _his _army saw him and bowed, separating so he could walk through. The sun blazed high, seated from its blue throne, watching the world beneath it as it churned. Orrin stopped at the marked line, where Murtagh was fighting yet another man. Orrin watched for a moment, frowning as Murtagh gained the upper hand and defeated his match.

"A true warrior, that one." One of the soldiers said to another. They both grunted in agreement, and Orrin could feel himself seethe. He coughed, loudly, and they took notice of him, quickly bowing to the ground.

"My Lord, I . . ." One of them began, but Orrin scowled at him, and he fell away, shamed. Kineth was berating the man Murtagh had beaten while the whelp himself had the grace to smile as a young woman bandaged his left hand. She looked at him as if he were a god, a _King, _a look that she should have reserved for Orrin.

"Kineth, a word." Orrin called, his voice like a sharpened spear. Conversation seemed to freeze as all took notice of the King. Kineth left the beaten man, humbly approaching Orrin.

"My lord?" He said with a smile. Orrin leaned backward, looking at Murtagh from over the large man's shoulders. He returned his gaze to Kineth, his lips pulled back in a fearsome grin.

"Murtagh is very skilled." Orrin said levelly. Kineth agreed, but too quickly.

"Yes, yes he is. He is one of the best I have ever trained."

"You trained me, Kineth." Orrin responded, and the man's face dropped like a heavy stone in murky water.

"My Lord- I, I meant no offense- Obviously _you're- Orrin, forgive me!_" Kineth tried not raising his voice, but excitement took hold of him. Orrin looked at him coolly, and then brushed past him. He walked up to Murtagh, just as the girl who was treating him retreated, blushing into her sleeve. Murtagh's eyes settled on her hips as she moved away, and they did not rise until Orrin was directly before him. The young man regarded Orrin, and then bowed his head, his long hair falling over his face.

"My King," Murtagh said, and rose.

"You are very skilled." Orrin complimented, and Murtagh flashed his eyes. "I thank you, My Lord. I am just a man, not deserving of your praise."

"You are deserving of my praise . . . and my _sword._" Orrin returned, and Murtagh looked at him, shocked.

"My king?" He asked.

"You made short work of these recruits. I will be your real challenge." Orrin drew his blade, and a gasp settled around them.

"Clear the area, make sure we have enough space!" He ordered, and soldiers formed a square around the marked lines, making sure no spectators stepped foot on the dueling sand. Murtagh looked at the blade, noticing how sharp the edges and point were.

"My lord, you fight with an unblunt weapon- "

Orrin roared and raised his sword, striking at Murtagh's head. The raven-haired youth blocked the blow, and they were locked in a struggle of metal. Murtagh's dark eyes stared at Orrin's as they pushed closer, faces divided by the edges of their weapons.

"You cannot beat me." Orrin taunted, and then the match truly began.


	24. Chapter 23

MURTAGH pushed Orrin back, his tired muscles aching as the gained a moments respite. Orrin charged again, and Murtagh raised his blade in defense, and then went on the offensive, swatting Orrin's straight jab away and attempting to strike him at the hip. Orrin saw the blow coming, however, jumping away and switching his blade to his other hand, and attacking from Murtagh's right, catching him off-guard. Murtagh was able to fend off the blows, but he could feel his defense faltering as Orrin ceased his attack to regain his breath. They both stood there, swords at the ready, focused on each other completely. Murtagh's chest rose and fell, his throat raw and head throbbing. The sun ravaged him, and he could feel his skin grow tighter as it was burned by the heavenly body's brutal embrace. Orrin slowly advanced, his blade held out before him as he moved. Murtagh inched closer as well, his eyes bouncing from Orrin to the crowd and back to Orrin. He thought he had seen Zidda among the faces . . . but he couldn't tell for certain. He saw no friends, however, he saw no men rooting for him as they had been before. How could they? Despite the outcome of this match, Murtagh would lose.

Still . . . had had inherited some of his Father's pride, which was then cultivated by Galbatorix. He could not simply _let _Orrin win, despite the man having a vast advantage. Murtagh would shame the King, and then, after that, he cared not what happened to him. If he was punished, everyone would know it was because Orrin was too weak to defeat him. The thought filled Murtagh with new-found energy, and he _ran _at Orrin. The King gasped in surprise, raising his sword just in time as Murtagh landed a heavy blow that was meant for the King's face. Murtagh pushed the man's blade away with his own, striking hard each time Orrin was able to recover fast enough to defend his body with his weapon. Orrin _was _well-trained, Murtagh decided, but it made no difference. He _would _defeat him.

Murtagh rushed at Orrin as the man tried to put distance between them. Murtagh had the advantage in close-combat. His blade was shorter than Orrin's, and forcing him to fight in close quarters would lead to his victory. Orrin was no fool, however, and would often escape from Murtagh's traps while also fighting on the offensive. His long blade seemed to be everywhere at once, despite its size. Orrin was strong enough, being able to use such a heavy weapon effectively and consistently. Orrin swung the blade over his head and struck at Murtagh's side, and Murtagh was able to defend himself, but the weight of the attack sent him off balance. Orrin saw Murtagh stagger and advanced, striking at Murtagh as he was nearly forced to the ground. Murtagh deflected the blows, his hands jarring as Orrin's sword vibrated Murtagh's own. Orrin recoiled and swiped at Murtagh's leg . . . and Murtagh pushed himself off of the ground, the blade passing under him as he did so. He rolled away, lifting himself up as he stared at Orrin in disbelief.

If that blow had connected, Murtagh would be one leg short of a man. Orrin seemed to know what he was thinking, for the man said not a word, but _smiled _knowingly. Murtagh then realized that Orrin could kill Murtagh, right here and now, and would not have to answer for it. As far as they knew, he was simply a peasant, drafted into Karem's force of child soldiers. Murtagh suddenly felt empty, and shaming Orrin meant nothing to him, not at the cost of his own life. He frowned, and threw down his sword.

Orrin raised his eyes in surprise. "Will you not fight?" He asked. Murtagh shrugged, and offered a smile.

"I am weak, my King. After a day of training, I cannot keep this match up any longer. You _win." _ Murtagh bowed, and when he looked up, he saw Orrin's face, which was flushed with anger. Orrin walked to the side, pointing his sword at Murtagh, Orrin's hair sticking to his forehead.

"You will fight." Orrin commanded. Murtagh raised his hands in defense as he spoke.

"I simply cannot compete with you, my lord." There was a chortle of laughter that was hushed instantly when Orrin looked into the crowd. Frowning, he turned his attention back to Murtagh.

"Duels are fought until first blood. To end one without doing so will not only be a blight on both of our honors, but would also shame our god."

"I did not take you for a pious king."

More laughter, unbidden this time.

"Hold him." Orrin ordered suddenly. Murtagh's eyes opened in shock as two soldiers came to him, complying to Orrin's order with zero hesitation. Murtagh did not struggle, he simply looked at Orrin with his eyes, eyes so dark and full of mystery. Orrin walked up to him, regarding him coldly.

"It is good you are not moving. It would have been harder for you had you have been." He said, his voice toneless. He lifted his sword, and after moving hair away from Murtagh's face with his sword, drove the point slowly into Murtagh's cheek, and then slowly guided it downward, until his blade sloppily cut a wayward line that ended at the base of Murtagh's chin. Blood quickly welled and began to fall, and Orrin offered Murtagh a grin.

"First blood." He said, turning away from Murtagh as the two soldiers released him. Murtagh brought a hand to his face, touching his cheek, and then looking at the dark red blood that painted the tips of his fingers. He didn't even feel it, feel the cut. Pain rarely bothered him now, after enduring his Father's torture and life with the Beyonders. He simply glared ahead, looking at Orrin's back through the King's stained tunic.

"Clean him up. He has another day of training tomorrow. If you fight like that while defending our Nasuada, I am afraid she will come under harm. And if she does, I will execute you myself. One drop of Noble blood is worth far more than the blood of someone with low birth, such as yourself. I am a King, and you are only a man. And such a little man you are." Orrin left with that, leaving Murtagh as he walked away from the sandy camp, retreating back to his improvised throne inside Karem's spire. He saw two dusky-skinned persons leave with him, one of them being a woman, who must have been Nasuada. She regarded him before leaving, her eyes and face giving no hint as to what her thoughts were. He watched her leave, and stood still as a girl came up to him, dabbing his cheek with wet cloth that made his face burn.

Orrin would rue this day, of that Murtagh was sure of.


	25. Chapter 24

RORAN counted sixteen mounted men. Sigils he did not recognize colored battered shields, and unkempt horses snorted as they bobbed their heads side to side, thick white manes waving over the side of their strong necks. The men themselves wore pointed half helms, with boiled leather and fur cloaks. They were armed with various weapons, spears and swords, and Roran saw men with quivers of arrows and bows strung across their chests. He held his own sword out before him, just as the rest of his party did.

"Who are you?" One of the mounted men asked, pointed his spear at Roran and his companions from his high seat. Yoslan stepped forward, not lowering his weapon.

"We mean no harm." He said cautiously. There was a contemptuous laugh from the mounted men.

The man with the spear pointed at Yoslan's blade as he spoke.

"You are armed, which means you may or may not mean at least _some _harm."

"These are dangerous parts. We have to carry weapons, in order for us to protect our own." Roran resisted the urge to turn and look to Katrina, who was huddled underneath a cape that Roran convinced Holde to give to her. He couldn't, not now, not without knowing who these men were. He didn't think they were Imperial . . . which means that they could just as easily be brigands.

"I agree with you, these are dark times. That is why we patrol our Lord's lands, keeping them free from those who would disrupt his peace. And what kind of men are you? Peaceful? Or are you raiders?"

Yoslan lowered his sword slightly.

"We are peaceable men. For that we give you our word." One of the mounted men spat at Yoslan's feet.

"A few days past there was a group of men who vowed peace and they continued to go on and ravage a village close to our boarders . . . dozens killed. Women carried off. Grains and other foods stolen. All done in the name of peace."

"Men with banners have some honor, but a bannerless man's got none. We should just kill them and be done with it. Better to end them here, then leave em' to chance." A few of the horsemen agreed, and the man with the spear raised it slightly, thinking.

"We mean no harm! We are sorry for your losses . . . our own village was sacked. We are the only survivors. The Empire attacked us, people under the King's protection." Yoslan said quickly, and the mounted man with the spear stirred in his seat.

"So you're refugees…"

"Captain, Even if they are telling true, we have no means to provide for so many." The man looked at Roran, Yoslan, and the others.

"How many are you?" The captain asked.

"Eight. Seven fighting men and one woman." Yoslan answered, and Roran tensed. He had wished Yoslan had not mentioned Katrina… but there was nothing he could say.

"We shall bring them to Lord Pike." The captain announced, and one of his men began to protest.

"You cannot be serious- we have no room-"

"That is for our Lord to decide." The captain replied, and the man stood down. He turned his attention to Yoslan.

"Our Hold is not far from here. Inside, you will find Lord Pike, who will decide your fate. Men, move out."

The horses whinnied as they circled Roran's group and then trotted past. They were lead through a misty haze of fog, passing over damp logs and stones, heavy rains washing old snow off of them the night before. They moved in utter silence, the only sound coming from the slither of cold clothing and the heavy plods of hooves. Roran had no idea where they were – down from the North, surely? He couldn't say. They were all disorientated, and had lost their bearings a few days past. The lack of food, exposure to the weather, and other factors caused them to falter in their sense of direction, and in a way, it was a blessing that the men had come to find them . . . It would only be a matter of time before they all succumbed to sickness if they had remained in the wild . . . and then there was Katrina.

Roran looked at her, as she walked huddled against him. Her hair was matted and dirty, her eyes dusky and her face hollow. Her mouth hung open, and she was whiter than the snow that surrounded them. He looked up, and saw the imposing men that had captured them, stern-faced underneath their armor. Their horses were intimidating too: large and wild, with shaggy hair on their necks and legs. Katrina coughed, and thick saliva dribbled from her frail mouth. Roran noticed the captain was riding near him, and believing the man to be the most civil of their captors, asked him how far Pike's hold was.

"Not far. It lies over this hill ahead of us. You will see it once we travel over it. It lies low in the valley, surrounded by trees and a large tower stands vigil at the center of the Hold."

Roran saw the hill, and already he felt himself going up on an incline. As they walked, Katrina held on him for support, and he held her, and she felt as fragile as glass to his touch.

"What kind of man is Pike?" Roran asked.

"Cold. Stern. He may let you live, he may not. He is a man of practicality, not of empathy. He is nothing like his late father, taking after the _Ghost Men_ he descended from. " The Captain seemed to shudder at the thought, but Roran was intrigued.

"Ghost Men?"

"A race of man that crossed the Dragon Sea. Some say that they came from Vroengard, fleeing Dragons. Others say that they came from Hylos, and others still maintain that they came from _Hell _itself. Whatever you believe, the Ghost Men arrived by ship thousands of years ago, after the First Walkers but before The Riders. They conquered most of the North, under the leadership of their King, Murdoc Pike. They established a moderately powerful Empire in the North, the members of House Pike having powerful magic in their blood, able to control animals and _blood. _ When the Riders Rose, Murdoc's descendant, Aife Pike, bent his knee, disbanding his Kingdom in favor of the Dragon-Rider supported House Langfeld. House Pike became a noble holding in the Empire, but through treaties, marriages, and laws of succession, Pike lands were encroached and taken, until all that remained was Pike's Hold. "

Roran was wide-eyed. He had never experienced anything outside Caravhall . . . to know the world was so vast, so old, and yet had lingered on for ages amazed him. The Captain turned his head at Roran with a wry smile.

"Of course, such tales are most likely beyond your understanding. Look, the fog obscures it somewhat, but you can see it now." The Captain pointed ahead, and Roran realized they were ontop of the hill. He was right- a white haze settled on the valley . . . but he could see hints of old, gray stone. Whispers of turrets, and the brown wood of a large gate. Above all of that, however, a fire wavered in the sky, orange and dull, but still burning.

"That is Pike's Tower." The Captain announced, and Roran looked up at the construction, taller than the mist and all of the trees he had seen so far. It seemed to rise beyond the sky, growing thinner and thinner as it grew in altitude, but even then, its height alone made it fearsome. A feeling of unease crept over Roran when he looked at it . . . it was as if . . .

"You can feel it, can't you? That's _magic. _Members of House Pike are watching you with their scrying tools. No doubt Mhampir will be alerted soon."

"Mhampir. Mhampir Pike, I'm guessing?"

the captain smiled. "You guessed correctly."

They were lead down into the valley, walking over damp grass that seemed to glow white, as opposed to the bright greens they had seen covered by snow moments earlier. A few trees littered the yard, but they were missing their leaves, and what may have been beautiful in summer looked foreboding in early winter. As they marched, Pike's Hold seemed to grow in size, and the closer Roran came, the colder he felt. Katrina pressed against his chest as they walked, and Glann swore to himself as they approached the gate.

"Bad omens from this place, bad omens." He muttered. If the captain heard him, he did not respond. The gates were opened, and within Pike's Hold Roran saw a shrouded man before him, with two guards carrying heavy iron axes. Their faces were painted, and they wore pale plate armor that seemed to shine, despite the fog that had settled around them that blocked out the sun.

"Aerion. My uncle demands to know why you have brought these . . . _people _into his Keep."

the captain spoke, and Roran surmised his name was _Aerion. _

"They claim they are refugees. They are no friends of the Empire, and I thought that Mhampir may have use for them."

The shrouded man raised his head, and removed his hood. His face was painted as well, but with more intricate designs, whites and blacks and blues, until no natural color of his own showed. His hair was white, but despite his coloring Roran could tell the man was young. He had strange eyes, dusky yet bright, and they seemed to see everything before they happened.

"We shall see" He said finally, glaring at Roran. He turned away, and Aerion dropped from his saddle while his men trotted off to the stables. Aerion himself guided Roran and his party into Pike's inner bowels, following the shrouded man and his painted warriors. Roran had never seen a structure so big. They passed numerous buildings, and the sounds filled his ears: Laughter, cries of anger, barking, children screaming and anvils banging. He smelt things too- fresh bread, searing meat, and sweet bakeries that reminded Roran how hungry he was. They passed training squares, with seasoned men teaching young boys the art of warfare. Flags waved in the center of the hold, where the base of the tower was found. The flag displayed an eye on a black field, open and haunting. Aerion led them to the tower, past two guards and into the building itself.

Inside, warmth instantly met Roran, and for that he was grateful. Other than the warmth, the room was anything but inviting. It was dark, not in lighting but in color, with bleak walls and carpets. Stone statues of regal men lined the path all the way to the throne, where a man sat. He had long hair, color of night, with white streaks coming down from his eyes and black lines crossing them. As Roran was led closer, he saw the man's eyes- a haunting green, murky and dark like a summer swamp. Beside him, a man stood a strange staff in his hand and his face painted with brutal artistry.

"Uncle, I present to you Aerion, Captain of the Guard, and his captives." The shrouded man presented.

Mhampir nodded at the young man.

"Very well, Lorgainn." Mhampir said, and Roran had to strain his ears to hear him. Lorgainn bowed, and left the throne room. Mhampir looked at Aerion, and then Roran and Yoslan and the others of his party.

"I see you have picked up some friends."

"My lord, they run from Galbatorix's wrath. They say there were pillaged, and had no clear destination. I thought that I should bring them to you."

"I see that they are armed."

"I saw no need to disarm them, my Lord."

Mhampir seemed to smile at that.

"Very well."

It was at that point that Roran realized Mhampir was not old at all. He was perhaps twenty three or twenty one summers, no less than that. Yet he carried himself with an air of not only superiority but also _wisdom, _a fearful trait for one so young. He was not much older than Roran, but he might as well have been one hundred years old in comparison to him.

"What should be done with them?" Aerion inquired. Mhampir seemed to have been waiting for the question.

"They are to be re-dressed and fed. Have the woman join the others in the kitchens, and have the men trained for three days before they are deployed with my uncle Newlyn to reinforce my grandfather as he assaults Gil'ead. We need to secure the North before The Varden marches from the Dwarf Mountains, with or without their support. Now be gone."

Aerion bowed, and led them from the Tower. It was on that day Roran's new life began.


	26. Chapter 25 (part 1)

Arya stiffened as her mother glared at her from her throne. Islanzadi sat in her Father's seat, a resplendent ebony chair that seemed to loom over all others in the royal chambers. The seat itself was nearly twelve feet high, and long thorns bristled from the black wood, as Islanzadi's white hands curled over the polished arms, fashioned in the likeness of panthers. Jade green eyes lustered underneath a luminous golden crown with curling horns that traveled upwards, above her head. Aurulent hair traveled down to the bottom of her breasts, which were covered by a midnight shaded tunic, red embroidery as dark as blood etched onto the stomach of the dressing, fashioned in the sigil of her House, the red raven of Valbhorethlian. Her legs wore a similarly colored blouse, and her feet were wrapped in silver silk, resting on two thick thorns that were placed conveniently below them. At the foot of the throne, an armored man stood, a large great-sword in his hands, his hands wrapped around the hilt, the sword raised over the left side of his breast. They were completely alone, and the silence that came from Islanzadi seemed suffocating.

"Have you no thoughts of my decision?" Arya questioned, dressed in a white tunic and leather trousers. Her black hair was long, nearly to her waist, with streaks of white running through it. Like her mother, and all of her people, long ears poked from the side of her head, curving upwards elegantly. Islanzadi's gaze hardened.

"You are to bow when you address your queen." She said coldly, and Arya swallowed her annoyance, lowering herself to one knee. Islanzadi sat quietly as she regarded her daughter, and then waved her hand, signaling Arya to stand.

"I have thought about your decision. It is madness . . . how could you be so selfish?" Islanzadi asked. Her voice was melodic and light, but anyone could tell that a great inferno of anger burned behind them.

"_They _need me. You heard their cry for help. It is the only way." Arya could not believe her mother.

_Evander would be riding out himself, an entire host behind him. But Islanzadi prefers to fester in Du Weldenvarden . . . _

"The concerns of the human lords is none of your concern. None of _our _concern. You know the price for meddling in their affairs . . . Your Father rode out to fight their wars, remembering tales of old, and where are we now? Half of our empire destroyed and your father lies dead. "

"This is not a matter of humans, Mother. They have retrieved the egg . . . they are fleeing _towards _us. I have told you previously, a small group, perhaps fifteen could meet them, and escort the egg back _here." _

Islanzadi scoffed bitterly.

"So the fools have an egg. Do you think that the egg is a hope? If so, you are as vapid as the humans. An egg means nothing if it will not hatch."

Arya reddened. How could she be so stubborn?

"There is a _chance . . . _" She began, but Islanzadi cut her off with a buffet of laughter.

"A chance? Yes, once you have the egg, simply parade it around Du Weldenvarden, give it to everyone, let everyone have a chance at hatching it. If all else fails, we can host a tourney in the human lands, let everyone attempt to hatch it. Hopefully Galbatorix will not notice."

"I will not let them get a hand on another egg. Regardless of what you think, there _is _hope. If you haven't noticed, dozens of our own have been flocking to the Varden under the cover of night. It is time to rouse the Houses sworn to us by right, and march down on the Empire, and retake our lands."

"And join the Varden? I will not trade one master for another. Your Father spoke like this, and as his consort, I had no choice but to agree with him. But I am _Queen_ now, and I refuse to listen to such nonsense. The Laen Elves will remain where they are. The Elven Triumvirate supports my decision."

Arya knew it was hopeless. The leaders of the three castes differed on many things, but war was one thing they agreed on. None of them had the courage to fight, to win back what had been taken from them.

"I do not like humans more than you do, Mother. But I am no fool, if this egg can be secured it will be the first strike against the Empire-"

"A first strike? Are you truly inane? You successfully retrieve the egg, and then what? Return _here? _It would be the death of us." Arya felt her fingers dig into her palms. She was right . . . in her anxiousness, she had not realized what to do _with _the egg. Bringing it back to Du Weldenvarden would be the death of her people.

"Do not forget it takes nearly eight years for a newborn dragon to mature. If your foolishness somehow succeeded, do you think we could hold off the Empire for so long? You are a fool, Arya. And any Elves fleeing to the Varden are fools as well."

"I could have just left. I didn't have to tell you."

"Then why did you? You wanted my approval. Seventy-years old, and still looking towards your mother for guidance. It is because you inherited all of your Father's courage and none of my intelligence. If you were to die in this vanity, our line would vanish. Did Evander perish just so you could follow him to the grave?" A tear glistened in Islanzadi's eye, but when she blinked it vanished.

"Forget this foolishness and remain here, where it is _safe. _You are young, Arya."

"You know I cannot." Arya said with finality, and Islanzadi watched her with those bright eyes.

"Then leave. And if you return with that egg, you will find Du Weldenvarden barred from you. _Aryano Eselan-raisa dun refara." _The curse fell on Arya like a heavy blanket. Islanzadi slumped forward slightly- A binding spell was one of the most powerful magics one could inflict on another. Arya felt it slither across her body, tightening around her arms and stomach and legs.

"You will be unable to return here if you have that abominable egg with you. I would rather suffer your death than receive the wrath of the Forsworn and their damnable king. Go, if you must, but do not return unless you mean to stay, and live up to your birthright." Arya did not flatter her mother with a response. She simply turned and walked down the long marble room until she left the throne.

The palace was empty. A few Sealed Elf servants quietly moved around inside the regal holdings, watering plants and cleaning pictures that were thousands of years old. Outside the room of the Throne, she found a large expanse of a room, a blubbering fountain in the center of the room. It was circular in shape, with banners falling from each smooth curve. Arya moved swiftly, tears welling in her eyes.

She knew her mother disapproved . . . but to _curse _her? Was she truly that afraid? Maybe she was right. Arya was born a few years after the fighting had ended one hundred years ago. She had not seen the violence, only had it described to her by the older ones of her people. She left the palace promptly, and looked at the vast kingdom her mother ruled after going through the golden gate.

The Laen Elves were people of beauty, and it reflected in their homes. From the hill of the palace, there were no trees, but rather thousands of white-stone buildings, ornate in their design. Between them, cobbled marble roads were found, snaking between the flat houses like a bleached serpent. She turned to look at the gate of her palace one last time, and then descended into the city.

It was always quiet here, the low murmurings of speech and the twiddle of stringed instruments filled the air like whispering ghosts. She walked through all of that, however, reaching the extremities of the entire city, finding another gate, supported by two watch towers on either side. At the base of the gate, Arya found her party, seventeen elves, all of them mounted, and a free horse for her. She approached them, and they greeted her respectfully.

"Aursio Arya," A handsome elf named Elyenorthuril greeted. He had golden hair and slanted eyes, of which burned a bright blue. She had chosen him to lead her party, having greater understanding of the human holdings. His father, Arusoa of Jalineor, was a bold Elf, and routinely scouted out human lands. Elyenorthuril was in line to be the next Arusoa of his House, and as such he knew nearly as much about human lands as his father did.

Arya mounted her horse, and one of the elves with her called out to the gatekeeper. In seconds, the yellow portcullis opened, and Arya and her party rode through. The Laen Elves called the entirety of the far eastern lands _Du Weldenvarden, _a title from their own language. It often led others to believe that the Laen Elves had dominion over all of the land- where, in actuality, they didn't. While the Laen Elves were in fact the leading race of the Elven Triumvirate . . . the control they actually manifested on the Wood and Dark elves was merely face value. The _Arusoa _of their ilk listened when they were told something . . . but rarely carried out the orders of the queen. They were all Elves, but they were not united.

She could see why. The Xoshan Elves lived on the borders of Laen Elf territory, and they had not touched the ancient forests like Arya's kind had. The trees there grew massive and thick, snaking vines drooping from overgrown branches covered with leaves as large as Arya's hand. Beasts roamed those jungles, and unlike the Laen and Sealed Elves, the Elves of Wood did not believe the eating of flesh to be a sin. Many Laen Elves often told of the sickening smell of roasting meat rising from jungle villages . . . but they never did anything about it. The Laen Elves could criticize all they wanted, but the Xoshan Elves were dangerous.

And Arya found herself frightened by the prospect of meeting them. Still, they rode out to the edge of the forest, and suddenly the trees went from being small and scattered to gigantic and clustered. Their horses navigated over green roots and snarling bushes. The smells always enthralled her. In the Laen Elf cities, everything was so _clean _and trim. The only smells there were of rushing water and freshly cut greens. Here . . . there was an earthiness to it, a savage scent that disgusted yet entranced. She found herself memorized by the bright red flowers that stuck from tree trunks, beautiful to the eye, but actually sucking life from the ancient tree to sustain itself. They came across a bubbling river, and were forced to wait as a horned bear, nearly sixteen feet tall at the shoulder, regarded them and slowly lumbered past.

"I can feel them watching." Elyenorthuril whispered to Arya, falling back so she could ride with him.

"Is that fear I sense, coming from the great _Elyenorthuril Jorintheil, heir to the Jalineor region and future Arusoa of his house?_"

Elyenorthuril mocked offense, turning away from Arya and clutching his neck.

"Oh, Arya, you wound my honor!" he cried as they passed over a stretch of long trees, vines dangling down to their faces.

"_How can honor be wounded when none has been earned?" _a voice slithered. Arya's alarms instantly went off, and Elyenorthuril hissed as he drew his own blade, a curved weapon crafted of enchanted silver. The rest of their party armed themselves as well, and the voice _laughed. _

"If I wished, I could kill you all . . . you are all squeezed between the trees, and it would be a simple thing to end all of your lives. I do carry more than seventeen arrows, after all."

Arya looked up to the overgrowth above, searching for the source. Her eyes scanned the leaves for irregularities, a break in the pattern . . . until she saw it. Two yellow eyes peered at her through the green, and she saw them shine with merriment.

"You're a smart one. Of course, I could still kill you, but at least you _saw _me. Most beings do not have that pleasure."

The eyes vanished, and there was a slight shaking above, and Arya jumped as a massive panther clambered down the trunk of the tree and bounded over her and Elyenorthuril, landing in front of their party.

"An Xoshan." Elyenorthuril seethed. The Panther widened its eyes and laughed again.

"Oh my, you're a smart one. And here I thought all animals talked." It joked, and Elyenorthuril reddened, sheathing his weapon.

"You shouldn't threaten your princess." He warned. The panther laughed again, leaning forward on its paws as it sat.

"My princess? Does she look like one who should lead me? Does she look powerful enough? I will respect her, but do not be so haughty as to think the Xoshan Elves bow to you pretentious fools."

Elyenorthuril began to protest, but Arya placed a hand on his arm, and he quieted down.

"He meant no offense; he was simply very zealous in his duty to protect his princess. I do not believe I rule you or your people, despite titles that claim otherwise." She said neutrally, and the panther smiled again.

"Titles mean nothing when burned. You made quite the noise, many of my brothers and sisters complained. You might imagine a rather large bear . . ." Arya's eyes widened as she remembered the creature.

"He was an _elf?_" She asked, amazed. The Panther nodded.

"Was? _Is. _We all have different forms, depending on our clan and our birth. Regardless, it begs to be asked . . . what does a party of Laen Elves require that they must come rushing through our land? One of two of you moving through is alright . . . but so _many." _

Arya did not want to tell this creature her dealings, but she had no choice.

"We are leaving Du Weldenvarden to assist humans who have dealt a major blow to the Empire. My Mother refused them, and so I am here in her stead."

"Ah, the young love to die, it seems." He said again, and Arya had to contain her anger.

"If we do not help, then we are all dead." She said with steel anger.

"I am not judging you, _Aursio _elf. I had surmised as much. Which is why I am glad I have come. I am joining you, for I too have dealings in the human lands."

"Well, you can't. We are on official business-"

"You are welcome to join us." Arya said, overriding Elyenorthuril as he spoke. The Panther looked at Arya, and then Elyenorthuril with glee in his eyes.

"I believe your princess has spoken." It said. Elyenorthuril glared, but said nothing.

"What are you called?" Arya asked.

"I am known in your tongue as Solembum." The panther's eyes gleamed.

(Part 1, I'm sorry but its nearly 3k words and I'd rather split it up . . . I hate how the site organizes the documents on the page, would rather everyone didn't have to read a massive wall of text. And for all of your continuity freaks, yes, this is in fact a flashback.)


	27. Chapter 25 (part 2)

Arya squinted as Solembum pounced back into the trees above them. Large leaves fell, slowly drifting to the dirt and moss covered ground.

Elyenorthuril _tsked _and gave Arya a look of annoyance.

"You can't be serious about bringing him, can you?" He asked. Arya smiled slyly.

"I am. I must admit that I am curious about the Xoshan Elves. They are so close, yet so foreign." Elyenorthuril sighed as Solembum landed softly on his paws before them again. In his massive jaws a curved bow hung by the string, and a thick leather quiver of arrows tied to the wood of the ranged weapon dangled lazily, inches away from the ground. Solembum looked at them with his yellow eyes.

"Justh a momenth" He said, and then dropped his tools. They landed on the dirt with a heavy _thud, _and somewhere in the wood an animal screeched. Solembum arched his back so that it was higher than his head, and the Elf's tail swiped about wildly. He began to grow smaller, and his black fur retreated into his skin. Paws became hands, forelegs shaping into those similar to Arya's own. His eyes remained yellow. But his face turned more angular, hairless, and light brown. Thinned lips smiled at Arya, revealing a mouth with large canines. He was naked, his body sculpted and lean, and his manhood swayed between his legs, almost like his now missing tail.

Arya blushed and Elyenorthuril leaned forward in his saddle.

"Have you no decency?!" He cried, growing angrier as he noticed Arya's eyes lingering on the lower portions of Solembum's body.

"Decency? I have plenty. However, depending on my mood, I can be very decent . . . or quite the savage." He flashed Arya a handsome smile, and she turned her head away, holding in a giggle. Solembum leaned over, and the leather covering his quiver of arrows was actually wrapped clothing, and Arya found herself disappointed as Solembum slowly dressed. In the end, he wore a dark brown leather shirt, tight enough to hint at his muscled body. His legs were slightly less covered, his trousers only reaching to his mid-thigh, but they were also looser, having a baggier appearance.

"Shall we be off, then?" He said with a smile. Elyenorthuril frowned.

"How will you be able to keep up on foot?" He asked.

"You'll find that Wood Elves are very fast walkers."

Arya learned the truth of that well enough. As they moved through the forest, Solembum was able to keep up, and he took his place by Arya's side. His hair was long, his skin the color of light wood. He possessed high cheekbones, and a dimpled smile that glowed every time he looked at her. She was aware of her own attractiveness, aware of how many men longed for her, but this was the first time she felt interested in another being. She wondered what her mother would say if she told her she coupled with a Xoshan . . . Arya found herself laughing at the thought.

Elyenorthuril was sullenly silent as they rode, and Solembum more than overcompensated for that. He was always talking, either telling Arya about his clan, the Oyran'thu, or the woods of Du Weldenvarden, which in the tongue of the Wood Elves was called _Aurehthema Hakodai _. The Xoshan Elves believed that they were the first Elves, and the first beings who roamed Alagaesia. It seemed true enough- Arya knew that Xoshan Elf oral tradition claimed to span tens of thousands of years, much longer than the written histories of the Laen Elves. However, their tales and history was often mixed with myth, the only sure thing that came from their tales was that the First Rider was a Xoshan Elf.

As they progressed the woods became less and less crowded, and the space between the trees gave them more breathing room. Arya's party spread out slightly, increasing their speed as they reached the edge of the wood. It was still far off, but Arya could see in the distance a gray and brown clearing.

The humans had fled Uru'baen, only for one of their mages to discover that a host was massing, and riding towards them from the North. They had no other chance but to cross the Dead Lands, a stretch of cursed land that was taken from them by the Empire. They had said they were headed towards Valion's keep, an abandoned fortress that had held back swarms of Dwarves, Urgals, and even Human rulers, until a tenuous peace was settled when the first Langfeld took the throne. Valion's only son, Valarion, died by the hands of the High Elve's own Rider, a woman whose name was detested and unspoken by all of her people, rather being named _Suhureliel Omshurtag_, Witch-Sear. It was her that lead to the destruction of the High Elven Empire, forcing them to retreat deeper into their old ancestral keepings.

"There, just ahead. The wood ends." Elyenorthuril said, and Arya gazed before her. He was right. The trees slowly shrunk and dwindled away, leaving open pockets of scarred earth that still smoked. The Elven magic users, a band called the _Namaheriel, _had spent their lives to seal the land, to make sure Galbatorix would never profit from it. In truth, The curse was the only thing that held back invasion. But for how long? Arya was not blind- Galbatorix would not simply let the Elves to their own dealings, as her mother believed. He had a goal, though Arya knew not of what it was.

The spurred on ahead, Hooves scraping against the hard and spiked ground. Arya offered to let Solembum ride her horse with her, but he explained that the soles of his feet were tougher than any shoe. They continued on, eventually coming across the black and charred fort of Valion. Arya squinted, searching for signs of life.

"I see no one." Elyenorthuril stated, and Solembum laughed.

"They are here. They reek of fear and blood, but they are here. Use your magic to sense what I smell."

Arya took his advice, and reached out with her magic. Sure enough, she could feel the lives of thirteen humans huddled within the keep, and she felt as they retreated from her gentle touch.

"Careful. They know we are here, though they do not know that we are friends." She warned, and slowly urged her horse forward. The others did the same, and two men, armed with bows, suddenly appeared on the walkway of the black walls, made of ancient stone, long charred.

"Queen Islanzadi?" one of them called. Arya opened her mouth wide and responded.

"No, her daughter. The Queen has refused to meet you, so I am here in her stead. While I cannot allow you entry into Du Weldenvarden, I can escort you to wherever you need to go."

The bowmen fell back into the fort, and Elyenorthuril shrugged, plodding ahead to meet with the humans. Eventually, they all waited around it, standing in burned earth that reeked of ash and pit. Skeletons littered the area, metal armor fused to their bones. Some corpses were still slightly covered with leathery skin, muscled dried and pulled back, giving them the appearance of cheerful phantoms. Flags crusted on the ground, attached to rusting poles and rotting wood. There were no animals, not even birds. They stopped at the wooden gate of the Fort, which was riddled with holes as large as Arya's head.

There was a creaking, and the doors pulled open, revealing a wary looking group of humans, robbed and armored. Some were mounted, some were not. Arya saw the bowmen, their weapons still drawn.

"I am Princess Arya of House Valbhorethlian, rightful ruler of the Du Weldenvarden Marches and seat of the great city Gillendel of the Thorn Throne, and keeper of the Veridantheil libraries of Ellesmera."

There was a pause, and Solembum coughed.

"I am Solembum." He said with a grin, and Elyenorthuril seethed.

"One does not address themselves after the princess, unless they belong to the opposing party and are of equal proportional station!" He hissed, and Solembum shrugged plainly.

"I just felt like hearing my own name." He said, to which Elyenorthuril ignored.

"I am Karnal Theris, of House Fhelan, sworn to House Langfeld, and subject to Orrin Langfeld, rightful King of Alaegasia." The man bowed, and Arya nodded her head at him.

"It is . . . most distressing that Her Highness refuses us . . . does she know the cargo we carry?" Karnal asked. Arya frowned then, displeasure at her mother growing.

"She does. She believes you will bring war to our people."

"War comes and goes, it does not choose who it will afflict." Karnal said with annoyance.

"So close . . . months of planning . . . deaths of the best of our agents . . . including my own son . . ."

"I am sorry for your loss, but we must decide on a course of action quickly. Time is not on our side." Elyenorthuril said. Karnal glared, but agreed.

"You are right, Laen Elf. If your Queen will not admit us . . . we must find a way back to Orrin. He is in Surda right now with half of the Varden's forces, but the rest of our allies are found within the lands of House Yorbar, near the dwarven holdings."

"Have they openly declared for Orrin?" Arya asked.

"No, which is why it would be our safest bet. The Empire will no doubt search the lands of smaller and declared Houses. I pray that searching is all that they will do, as many lords and their sons left their lands undefended, to bolster Orrin's forces as they recaptured Surda's surrounding territories."

Ayra knew that the Empire would do far more than search, and she knew that many Lords would find themselves widows, with dead newborn sons and young daughters.

As they prepared, some of Karnal's men had to share saddle with Elyenorthuril's. To their credit, they did not complain, and were expressionless as humans wrapped their arms across their stomachs. Karnal still had his own horse, as most of his party. Inside his worn cloak a box gleamed, and Arya's eyes caught sight of it as her heart stopped.

_The Egg_ she thought. Karnal gave her a weary look, and then rode off. They made their way across the Dead Lands, a setting sun coloring their path orange. The going was easy enough, the land being flat and formless. They passed by old battlefields, riddled with half-sunken corpses, each of them with the leathery skin and pulled faces, gleeful in death. Arya shuddered as they moved, and even Solembum swore every time he stepped on an ashen face, which seemed to _gasp _as it crumbled. Night came soon enough, and they rode through it, riding into the morning. As they progress green slowly returned to the land, and soon Arya even saw trees and birds, along with brown pastures that were nicked with cold. Winter was nearly upon them.

"We are close to the Empire's heartlands." Karnal warned, and their eyes were peeled for riders. They never saw any, and kept their ways away from settlements that they came across.

It was then that an arrow crashed through one of Karnal's men, jutting through his throat as he let out a wet whimper, blood sputtering from his neck. Elyenorthuril swore, drawing his blade and pointing it towards the huddled gathering of trees that lied before them.

"In the forest!" He cried as his elves took up defensive positions.

"Protect the queen!" He ordered, and Solembum strung his own weapon, and loosed an arrow that hit a man square in the head as he lumbered out of the brush. More men followed, weapons raised and screaming. They wore Imperial colors, armored men and even a few knights. Arya drew her own blade and plodded into the fray with her guard.

They smashed into the humans, men screaming as hooves stomped in their faces. Arya swatted away spears as they darted around her body, stabbing one man in the eye with the point of her blade. Elyenorthuril swung his sword by either side of his horse, felling men right and left. Karnal and his own troops fought behind them as Imperial soldiers surged past, beginning to gain the upper hand. Some of Arya's guard were pulled from their horses and stabbed, and she raised her sword, roaring.

"Fall back!" She cried, and Elyenorthuril parroted the order. They turned and galloped a few ways backward, behind Karnal and his own men as the Imperials advanced. Solembum notched arrow after arrow, each of his shots ending lives. He attacked until he had no more arrows, and then turned into a panther, surprising the Imperials as he pounced into their ranked, tearing out throats with his claws and teeth. Karnal fought with no weapon, instead using magic in place of sword or spear. His spells were simple, but effective. He muttered them and Arya saw men slip on their feet, leaving them vulnerable to an attack by Solembum or her elves. Some were more powerful, engulfing arms and hands in blue fire. But with each attack, he grew weaker.

Arya rejoined the fight, her horse prancing into battle. The Imperial line was faltering, and it seemed that they would win . . .

Until a horn sounded behind them. Arya turned, and saw fully mailed knights, mounted on massive warhorses charge. They were on them in seconds, and Arya screamed as a lance exploded into Elyenorthuril's chest. The elf gibbered incoherently, and his attacker left the lance inside his body, riding off and drawing his sword. She fought her way towards Karnal as men convulsed on him, reinvigorated by their allies. He noticed her as she fought her way through, and looked at her with desperate eyes. He dug into his cloak, and produced the box. It shined brilliantly, and a collective pause settled over them, before he tossed it to Arya.

"Protect the EGG!" He cried, as his action cost him his life, a heavy axe landing on his head. Arya caught the cargo, and saw that her guard had rallied around her. Solembum as well, still fighting, though a gash was bleeding on his hind thigh, marring his fur.

"We must flee." She said, and one of the elves with her nodded.

"You must. Two of us will go with you, the rest will stay and hold them off."

"But I cannot simply-"

"Go!" Solembum cried, jumping over her head and snarling as he toppled a knight that was riding up behind her. She watched with wide eyes as the Xoshan Elf caught the screaming man in the neck between his teeth, and cracked it with a swift turn of his heavy head.

"Go!" he growled, mouth filling with the human's blood. She nodded, and rode off, her two companions riding with her. She turned one last time, and saw Solembum stagger as a lance cut into one of his frontlegs as he pawed at a knight. Solembum howled then, a large yelping call that brought tears to Arya's eyes.

She didn't have time for tears.

She rode.

Her companions died.

Durza.

Urgals.

_Pain . . ._

Arya woke screaming as Durza's pale hand was fixed on her forehead. She was strapped to a wooden plank, her clothing ripped and her body invaded from every possible opening by Durza's cruel instruments of torture.

"Useless!" He cried, releasing her head and backhanding her as she blacked in and out of consciousness.

"Where is the egg!" He cried. Arya stared at him blankly, and turned, his sweaty back causing his shirt to cling to it. A fire was glowing behind him, and he brought out a strange tool, one with three prongs that glowed red from the heat of the fire. Without warning, he dragged it across her face, burning flesh and cutting deep, and Arya cried out in anguish. Her scream was loud, and as she sunk into darkness, she realized it carried, not by sound, but by _magic. _It was heard, and before she could respond to the listener, she fainted.


	28. Chapter 26 (part 1)

Eragon grabbed the clasp of his borrowed cloak and pulled it closer to his neck, watching as a black plume of smoke slowly rose from a settlement across the shallow river. He head Brom walk up behind him, dressed in rich-looking furs that had small stains of blood on them. His large sword was strapped to his back, and his veined arm carried a large bag of borrowed meat and stale bread. Saphira raised her head and sniffed the air, and looked at Eragon with solemn eyes.

_Another village massacred . _She said.

Eragon turned from Brom, pulling his hood over his head as icy rain began to fall like cold shards of glass. The river passed by silently, crawling over smooth rocks with nearly no sound. Wind came through, rustling the skeletal limbs of trees and shaking half-frozen snow off the branches. Brom lumbered next to him, his beard covered in frost, wet with rain and quickly freezing.

"Well, let's have a look. If we're lucky, this village will be the same as the last." He said, dropping the leather bag by Eragon's feet and splashing into the river, easily crossing it as his boots cracked portions of water that were somewhat frozen. Eragon hesitated, casuing Brom to turn and look at him with an annoyed glance.

"This doesn't feel right." Eragon said finally, and Brom shrugged.

"Fine. Freeze." Brom said, continuing without him. Eragon shuddered, and looked at Saphira.

"Stay here." He said, causing her to protest. _I want to see the village! I want- _

"It's too dangerous . . . if anyone were to see you . . . just stay here, please." Eragon asked, and Saphira lowered her wings in relent, slinking back into the woods that hugged the river while her scales were glossed with falling water. Eragon skipped across the river, freezing liquid sneaking into his leather boots. He placed his hand on his sword, which Brom had insisted he loot from the previous village they had come across. The land was but kissed by winter, a light embrace. However, cold truly did rule here, and while there was little snow, gusts of wind sent chattering chills through his body. Leave-less trees marched ahead of Eragon, while Brom marched hunched over between the tall guardians, long dead until summer. The eye of his hilt swayed, and Eragon again felt mesmerized by the weapon.

The town was unguarded by wall or watchtower, and the buildings mixed with the wood, no separation between the two. Eragon crunched as he walked, stepping on icy ground and leaves hardened by cold. He pulled his hood closer to his ears and continued on, snot dripping from his nose. He finally caught up to Brom, the man standing outside the first building that they came across, still smoldering, a fire slowly dying on the thatched roof.

"Wait here," Brom ordered, stepping inside. Eragon waited, the rain growing heavier as it began to seep through even his cloak and touch his skin. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, and nearly recoiled at the freezing touch of it. He curled his fingers around it instead, allowing his palm to grow numb as Brom searched inside the house. The man appeared outside the house's front door, a half brunt loaf of bread under his arm. He took it in both of his hands, breaking it in two, throwing a portion of it towards Eragon.

The boy caught it, taking a bite as the bread itself was softened by the rain. He sucked at the liquid greedily, sating his thirst and his hunger.

"Come on," Brom said, and he re-positioned his sword, walking deeper into the town. Trees seemed to curl over the various buildings, and as such they had been touched by the fire, swaying in the wind, causing the flame to grow tails as it burned the long barren branches of trees. Eragon followed Brom house-to-house, eating whatever they found and saving other foodstuffs in an empty bag that had once been used to carry potatoes. Bodies laid everywhere, brutally savaged. Eragon stepped over them, their eyes still open as blood pooled beneath their corpses. Brom seemed unaffected by them, but Eragon could not stop staring at the bodies as he followed the man. There were men . . . women . . . and even children. Some lacked limbs and heads, torsos ripped open and mutilated.

_What type of creature could do this? _Eragon jumped as he heard the barking of dogs ahead of him. He heard Brom swear as a small pack of the animals yipped and hopped around Brom as he approached, running away from the body they were devouring. Eragon approached as Brom knelt at the body, dragging the bag of food they had gathered.

"No men attacked this village." He said.

"Men would have taken the valuables." Eragon added, and Brom bobbed his head.

"They would have taken the women as well. . . No, men did not kill these people. This is the work of _Urgals." _

Eragon had never seen an Urgal alive. At Carvahall, it seemed they were a constant threat, but they had never been attacked. Once, he and Roran had found a body of one of the creatures in the valley, it having died from some sickness. He saw it now, fearsome even in death. Muscled and vicious, with dark eyes and a cruel mouth filled with sharp teeth. Bowed legs and arms corded with strength, with skin that seemed resistant to most blades.

"How many do you think did this?" Eragon asked, feeling uneasy.

"It would not take many to destroy a village such as this one. Thirty. Maybe less. But the question is why? Even Urgal raiders would have taken the food." Brom rose, sighing.

"We should-" He started, and then Eragon saw his eyes go wide. Eragon rotated, and he nearly screamed.

An Urgal was before them, wounded, but standing. It looked as if it had stumbled from inside one of the houses, and blood dripped from an arrow that pierced its neck. The beast's mouth opened and closed, a blue tongue licking cracked lips. It wore no clothing, save for a blue loincloth that revealed its grotesque member when the wind blew. A gray hand held a massive spear which ended in a sharp bladed point.

"RAZ NIL GARAN HORTIL?" it said, the voice bellowing. Eragon stepped backwards, but Brom held him in place.

"You're a rider now." He whispered, and drew his own weapon. The sword seemed to _glow_ as it fell free of Brom's bindings, black and red steel shrugging off water as it fell heavily. The hilt roared silently, and Brom held it with two hands, the jeweled eyes vermilion pupils surrounded by ornate metal . Eragon drew his own sword, a simple blade, but sharp and suited to his size. The urgal lurched forward . . . and charged.

It kicked up dirt and water as it ran across the ground, destroying puddles and creating new ones as it moved. It pointed its spear directly at Brom, choosing to attack him first. Brom ducked as the beast stabbed at him, jabbing the bottom-hilt of his weapon into the urgal. The creature roared, swiping at Brom with its free hand. Brom rolled between the creatures legs, escaping the attack, and cutting across the creature's bottom thigh. It let out a fearsome howl as it swung its spear wildly, Brom jumping away or swatting it aside with his sword.

"Eragon!" He called, and Eragon woke up from his trance, and ran to assist Brom. The Urgal seemed to grow as he came closer, and the beast's wounds seemed not to affect it. Eragon stabbed at its sliced calf, and the beast yowled, arching its back. It suddenly wheeled around, striking Eragon with a heavy-arm. Eragon went flying backward, hitting his head on the ground, everything growing black.

"Eragon!" Brom called, but he was far away, his voice fading . . . .

It was then he heard the scream. It was shrill and filled with pain, filling his head as it grew louder. He then was flashed with an image, a bloody girl before a pale man, hair as dark and red as her life's blood that dripped down the wooden table she was strapped to. He loomed over her, and she screamed as he twisted and cut. Her cries rooted themselves in his mind, until he felt himself screaming as well.

"ERAGON!" Brom's yell brought the boy back into his surroundings, gasping as he rose to the sight of the Urgal crashing towards him. The beast grabbed his arm and pulled him closer, preparing a hand that could easily crush his skull over his head. Brom rushed towards him, but he wouldn't make it in time. Eragon watched as the fist came hurtling towards his mouth . . . .

_Brisingr. _

The word came from nowhere, appearing in his mind as the urgal dropped him as it howled in pain, blue flames licking its body. It staggered and fell over, rolling in the ground as Eragon's eyes were fixed on the flames that curled and waved on the Urgal. It screamed and screamed, a terrible hissing noise rising from it as the spell entered its body through its mouth, frying the beast's internal organs. Brom was upon it then, sticking his sword through the creature's head. It stopped mid-scream, and then fell silent. Brom pulled his sword free, stepping back as the flames ate at the Urgal.

"How did you do that?" Brom asked, drawing Eragon's eyes away from the flames of the Urgal.

"I-I don't know . . . the word . . . it came to me . . ."

"Spells of reaping do not simply come to you . . ." Brom said. Eragon had no answer for him, but then he remembered the vision he had.

"Brom! I saw something. A girl, she was being tortured."

"What?" He said.

"I don't know. I just- We need to save her. I know where she is, I can _feel _it. It is to the east of here. I know the way. Saphira will too, she saw it as well, I could feel her mind. She- She sent us the image. "

"There is only one race with that ability." Brom said grimly. He walked ahead of Eragon, shaking his head.

"This is madness . . ."

"You said the problem with riders was that they did not care for others. Well, here is a chance to revert that stigma. She needs our help. She needs us." Eragon urged.

" How was she able to send a vision without establishing a link . . . . . ." Brom trailed off, swiftly turning to Eragon.

"Call your dragon. We will save the girl." He commanded. Eragon swelled, and felt warm for the first time in months, despite the freezing rain that hugged his clothing.

OKAY. I will write part 2 of this chapter later tonight or early tomorrow, but I have a bit of a short A/N.

First, I want to thank everyone who reads this. I had no idea this venture would be so popular, and I love everyone that gives it a chance. However . . . I NEED REVIEWS! I look at the stats, I see people reading old chapters, people catching up obviously, but then I see 40-80+ people reading the new ones and only getting one review. I NEED to know what you guys think. I know this isn't flawless, and even if you feel like you can't critique at least comment on what is going on in the story. On that note, there is obviously a large group of people coming back to read each chapter- yet you don't follow. If you DON'T want to review, do me a favor and at LEAST follow the story. I know it may not seem like a big deal, but it is for me, and an action that takes you one second makes me happy. So, please, review, follow, and read (Which everyone seems to do well enough). So yeah, thanks for your time, and expect more soon.


	29. Chapter 26 part 2

Night crashed into Eragon and Saphira as they watched Brom lean out from the side of a large tree. Beyond, a large stone fort erupted from the ground, surrounded by wooden stakes, sharpened, and a thick wall of cut timber. It was too dark to make out the shape of the castle, but Eragon could at least tell it was small, with several sharp jutting points rising off from it. On the walkway of the building a sentry patrolled, a torch making his features blurry as a light rain drizzled down on them. It was the rain that bothered Eragon the most.

It had been raining for most of the day, and cold had settled in on his skin, making him numb and languid. Brom seemed unaffected, however, and grew annoyed when Eragon could not keep up. Eragon himself had to push to move, every time he grew weak he simply had to remember the screaming girl . . . and that vision fueled him. Saphira felt his suffering, and she pushed against him to offer him some warmth. When he kneeled, she was a little taller than his bent knee.

_Thank you. _ Eragon smiled.

_I cannot offer you much warmth . . . I am small. _

_You will grow, and you shall be the greatest dragon the land has ever seen. _

Eragon scratched behind her head, and she purred deeply, a soft grumbling noise that lifted his spirits. Brom looked back at them, and raised his hand.

The signal.

Saphira vanished, a _woosh _of sound and suddenly she was in the dark sky. Eragon looked up blindly, trying to find her . . . he couldn't. That was good. That meant the sentry wouldn't see her either. He slowly moved up on Brom, the man tensed as Eragon approached. He looked behind him and eyed the boy, and then gave the sentry a glance. The man had paused, looking at nothing of interest, gazing in the darkness. Brom nodded, and Eragon closed his eyes.

_Saphira, Now!_ He ordered, and in that instant, a dark shadow flew over the sentry. The man made no sound as teeth closed in around his neck, ripping it open, and pulling it down to the unseen stone flooring of the walkway. Brom looked back at Eragon. "Are you ready?"

He asked, and Eragon saw himself picturing the girl again.

"Yes. I am."

They moved heavily against the darkness around them, the ground slurping at their feet as they moved. Eragon and Brom holstered their swords, carefully navigating between the jutting stakes that were invisible until the last moment. They were effective against mounted men, and as Eragon moved past them, he saw dried blood that painted them in the night. Brom lead the way, his eyes untroubled by the night. Brom had explained the longer you were a rider, the stronger the man grew. His eyes could see in the night as well as any dragon, and Eragon had to assume that he had many more abilities. They reached the wooden wall, and Brom felt along it. Eragon looked on, Brom's pale hands barely visible in the ebony sheen of night.

"There's handholds," He grumbled, and began to climb. Eragon followed after him, pricking his hand on the pointed end of the wooden wall. They came over it easily enough, But then they faced the stone wall of the fort itself. Saphira hopped on top of the walkway's railing, and peered down at them, her eyes dully shining in the dark.

_There are footholds on this wall as well_ she said, and Eragon relayed the information to Brom. The man nodded, breathing heavily, and continued up on the wall. Eragon climbed behind the man again, freezing rain dripping down into his face as it slid off of his long hair. His fingers were cold, but he continued on, ignoring the feeling until finally he rolled over the wall, and onto the walkway. He laid there, breathing heavily, his sword beside his body.

"Come on. You have to lead the way." Brom said, and helped Eragon up. Eragon closed his eyes, summoning the vision again. He saw the room, the girl, heard the screams . . .

He _knew _where she was.

"I can sense her. She . . . I do not know how but . . ."

He brushed past Brom and Saphira followed. They came across a wooden door, and Eragon rattled it open. They came across more stone, a flight of stairs, and torches hung on walls, giving the descending walkway dim light. Eragon came down the stairs lightly, the only sound coming from the scraping of their wet boots. The stairs ended, and another door was found. Eragon hesitated, and opened this one as well, the cold metal of the handle sticking to his skin. He shuddered, pushing the door open. Brom and Eragon saw a long hall, dying torches sputtering within metal posts. Saphira's claws clinked against the stone, which was cobbled, inscriptions scribbled on them, strange characters that Eragon did not understand. He continued on, however, passing through stairs and rooms and hallways and underpasses . . . noting all the while how empty the keep was.

He felt her before he heard the scream. It was curdling, desperate and full of pain and hatred. There was laughter as well, and a clubbing sound, followed by more screams.

"_Here!" _Eragon cried. He ran ahead, down another hall, which ended in one door.

_Eragon, wait! _ Saphira cried. Brom bounded behind him, trying to stop the boy.

As Eragon touched the handle, the door itself flew at him. His nose dribbled blood as he fell over, and when he attempted to push the door from his body, it pressed down on him, blood and the smell of blood mixed with oak filling his nose.

"Eragon!" Brom cried, and the boy felt the pressure on the door lighten.

"_Caomhim?" _a youthful voice called, half amused and half surprised. Eragon threw the door off of him then, and grasped for his sword, which had fallen on the ground. He found himself staring at man drenched in sweat, with ghostly skin and fiery red hair that was long and voluminous. Evil eyes regarded Eragon, and then returned to Brom.

"Caomhim. Such a strange meeting. I took you for de- A _dragon?" _ He said suddenly, and Eragon knew that Saphira must have walked to the side of Brom. The man snarled then, sending an outstretched hand towards Eragon. He felt himself rise, and then he was thrown to the side of the hall. He swore as he rose himself, Brom charging the red man, his blade raised high. The red attacker dodged all of Brom's strikes with ease, and then flipped over him, reaching for _Saphira. _

"No!" Eragon cried, pushing himself towards his dragon and her attacker. The man glanced up at him and smiled handsomely.

"Brisingr!" Eragon cried, blue flames snaking towards the man as the spell sucked the energy from his body. He shuddered, and Saphira retreated into his flames, unaffected by the heat. The red man cried as the fire curled around him, lighting his hair as he writhed on the stone ground. Finally, the inferno ended, and Eragon slumped over, tasting blood in his mouth.

"ARUGH!" The red creature screamed, and the flames vanished, a large black blade erupting from emptiness into his hands. He raised his blade to attack Eragon, and the boy was too weak to move.

_This is the end. _

Saphira was at the man's ankle, her teeth tearing flesh. The man yowled in surprise, and then Brom slid between Eragon and the red man, his sword clashing against their attacker's black cleaver. The red man kicked Saphira away, and she hit the wall of the hall with a heavy _thump. _

"Stay back, Eragon," Brom warned, attacking with heavy blows that were returned faster than they were delivered.

"Morzan will be happy to discover you live, Caomhim. I wonder-"

A horn shattered the red man's sentence. It was louder than any sound Eragon had ever heard, a low-pitched thrumming that vibrated the stone of the keep. The creature hesitated, and Brom drove the point of his blade through the creature's chest. It gasped, mouth wide open in disbelief and fury.

"_Trakana urhlahan!" _The creature screamed, and in vanished in a plume of mist.

Eragon rose quickly, ignoring Brom's calls as he entered the room where the girl lay.

She was strapped to a wooden frame, her clothing ripped and tattered. Cuts and bruises covered her entire body, but her beautiful face was horribly marred by a series of deep long gashes that went from the corner of her head to the opposite bottom of her mouth. Dark hair lined with white was smattered with blood and sweat, and her strong arms and legs were bound with metal. She opened her eyes, however, and within them Eragon saw two pools of strength swimming in green pupils.

"Finally you come." She said, smiling weakly. Brom brushed past Eragon, his face written over with grim colors.

"The keep is under attack."


	30. Chapter 27 part 1

Roran wished it wasn't so wet. The handle of his sword seemed to be slipping from his grip, and the heavy wooden shield he wore bit into his skin with metal bindings. He wore boiled leather and trousers, and a heavy pelt across his shoulders, halfway molded. On his shield the colors of House Pike were found, white and red. Behind and in front of him, the rest of his new allies marched in silence. The night was full of darkness, and every step he took he felt himself dig deeper into the murky earth. Above the hundreds of pointed helms, Roran spied Newlyn Pike, a full-helm crafted from bleached bone covering his face as he rode a massive warsteed. He learned that the Ghost Men wore the skeletons of their forebears, enchanting them with magic so that they were more powerful. Roran did not believe in magic, not truly, but he mused that there must be some reality to it if a man could confidently ride into battle wearing the frail bones of his family's deceased. Not far from Newlyn, Lorgainn pike rode behind, him and his party. They were blood mages, as one of the pike soldiers had told him before. Again, Roran found himself hesitant to believe the statement. At the yard, where the pike soldier had told him of Lorgainn two days past, Roran had scoffed.

"Tricks and smoke. That is what a mage is." Roran said with a smile. The Pike soldier's face was aghast.

"You must never say such things!" He warned. Roran fell silent, but kept his smile all the same. Now, he wasn't so sure. They seemed to glow in the night, their faces covered in bones. Their horses were painted as well, and behind the procession, _animals _stalked. Wolves and dogs and forest-cats padded, their eyes as red as the blood that bleached their bone-armor. It was said that Pikes could control beasts . . . Roran would find out the truth of that soon enough.

They came to a halt suddenly, and there was a booming horn that came through the air. It shattered the night silence, and Newlyn trotted around his men, and then to Lorgainn. They spoke softly, and then Newlyn reigned his horse around, returning to the head of his army. Roran knew the plan well enough. They were to wait until Mhampir's grandfather, Deligan Pike had engaged the forces of Gil'ead. Roran had learned much in his time with the Pikes, and he knew that if they took Gil'ead, they would undermine Imperial influence in the North. Many Northern houses had not declared for this new king, but they would at least follow House Pike's example in war against the Empire.

"Men, my father Deligan has engaged Gil'ead. We will pass through the town, and assault the back of the fortress as Deligan's forces take the front. With this victory, we will assure the protection of the Northern Houses. We attack now." Newlyn's voice carried above the heads of his men, and they marched anew. Roran kept on with them, not tiring as they moved across muddied fields and small trees. Gil'ead was the gateway to the North, and from there, it was the portal to the South. Any fool could see the strategic advantage of the area.

The rain began anew, heavier and faster, thrumming on Roran's helmet like a series of beating drums. He could not see the town from behind the walls of men, but he heard the sounds of battle in the distance; screams, shots, roars and crashes. The telltale clang of blades and the splatter of blood. He heard all of this, despite the distance from the source. It was a twinkling, and as soon as he realized he heard the sound, it vanished. He noticed eyes upon him, and turned his head as he marched, finding Lorgainn starting at him, his eyes darkened by the skull he wore over his face. The Pike averted his gaze, and urged his horse into the outskirts of the town, his bloodmages trailing behind him, and their animals at their feet like silent ghosts.

"FOR PIKE!" Newlyn cried, charging after Lorgainn. His cavalry thundered past, throwing up muck and dirt that flew into the shields of the infantry. They heard a warning horn sound, trumpeting from the village that lied behind the fort of Gil'ead. He then saw Newlyn and the cavalry retreat- remembering the plan. Newlyn would draw out Imperial forces sent to guard the rear- and send them charging into the shields of his soldiers.

The plan worked.

The first line crashed before Roran, ducking behind his shield as his ears were assaulted by the sound of battle. His feet were slippery in the increasing voracious rain, men screaming and bellowing and crying. All Roran could do was wait until their first line faltered, retreating or opening space so that his enemies could slink through. He gripped the short-bladed weapon in his right hand, his helmet dripping water into his eyes. The battle met him then. An imperial warrior broke through the first rank, moving forward and allowing his allies a foothold. He wielded a shining long sword, both hands on the ornate hilt as a steel shield protected his back. He charged directly at Roran, who feebly raised his own shield as the massive sword came crashing down.

The shield splintered like old wood, Roran spinning away as he tried to shake the defensive tool off of his arm. The man cut a Pike soldier from neck to groin as he advanced on Roran, striking at Roran's thighs. Roran jumped backwards, slipping on mud and falling to the earth. Another body fell to his right, dead eyes staring at him as blood poured from a sunken chest. The man stood over Roran then, his sword raised to deliver the killing blow- until the point of a spear poked the man's neck. Blood spilled from the wound as Newlyn rode past, his horsemen close behind him. The man he stabbed stood for a moment, and then fell over. Roran rose quickly, gathering his bearings as he looked about him.

Pike colors rushed past as orders were barked but not understood. They all ran into the village, which was now a battleground. Roran followed, stepping over dead and dying men as they cried for help and gods. He brushed past a company of longbowmen, standing at the borders of the town as they loosed arrow after arrow into the mass of soldiers further down. The arrows hissed as they left deft fingers, and Roran hoped they were as accurate as they looked.

"Around here!" A man cried, his face covered by a fullhelm with blood painting his chestplate. He stood behind the last ranks of the Pike forces as they were locked in battle with Imperial soldiers. Roran followed the man, who led at least thirty others. They passed into the town, sloshing in ankle-deep mud and ignoring the rain that nearly blinded them. The fullhelm man led them into the side of the fighting Imperials, roaring as he cut down two men unaware with his jeweled axe. He was then felled by a strike from a maul, falling over into the rain, his helmet dented on the side. Roran surged forward, his short-blade giving him mobility and speed. His cloak flew behind him like a cape of a hero from the old tales, forgetting the lessons he had learned in the drillyards, fighting purely on instinct. He never saw more than the eyes of the men he killed, never even saw their faces. He saw their colors, and knew they were an enemy. Old and young, it made no difference. They died the same.

The ground was awash with blood when the last vestiges of the Imperial forces melted away. They retreated deeper into the village, arrows catching some running men as they turned their backs and abandoned rank. He gained a moments respite then, lifting his head to the distance and seeing the fort of Gil'ead. It was small, sharp-looking, and surprisingly formidable. Fires swam around it, and Deligan Pike's forces must be scaling the walls as he stood here.

"Forward! Forward!" Newlyn cried behind him, his warhorse trampling dead bodies as his forces galloped past. Roran followed, and the men behind him did as well. They met another Imperial force, this one already engaged. Roran weaved between horses and entered the fray, swords flashing all around him. They pushed the Imperials back, slowly, red and brown ground grinding in between leather boots and metal sabatons. A savage club struck him at the corner of his mouth, and Roran bit down on his tongue as his helmet came flying off of his head. The club then came swinging into his side, and Roran fell over as blood filled his mouth. His attack came into view- a man who looked no more than a peasant, but with large arms and shoulders. He struck at Roran again, the young man rolling away from the blow, unclasping his cloak and throwing it at his attacker. The man fell backwards as the heavy mud-laden cloak wrapped around him, and Roran rushed forward, stabbing his short sword into the cloak until his arm grew tired.

"_Scabahha gconai van nihil"_.

Roran saw a corpse erupt in blood, tendrils of the life giving fluid stabbing men in the eyes and slipping between the creases of their armor. He shied away, finally spotting a man waving his hands about him, eyes glowing within a face covered in bones.

_Bloodmage. _

Lorgainn's small force came from nowhere, speaking in strange tongues as they rode through. The animals they lead joined the battle, Roran saw wolves and foxes and dogs nipping at heels and tearing throats as they jumped and barked.

They were winning.

(Part 2 later tonight)


	31. Chapter 27 part 2

Lorgainn's bloodmages made quick work of the remaining Imperial strength in the town. The battle still raged ahead of them, however, Newlyn leading them deeper into the village and into the fort. They marched up a steep incline, shouts of anger pouring over them. Arrows came flying at them from the battlements of the fort, and Roran winced as the shafts skimmed by, hitting men and killing them instantly or slowly, depending on where they landed. Newlyn was at the head of the assault, his sword waving ahead of him. Arrows were fired at the man, but they shied off the last minute, veering away to either side of him as his horse shook its fearsome mane and chomped its teeth. They reached the wooden wall of the fort, and Lorgainn's bloodmages rode past them brusquely. They all began chanting, and a high-pitched hum took to the air. It loudened until it reached a note that was almost deaf to the human ear, and the wooden gate began to splinter and crack. Suddenly it exploded, and Newlyn pointed his sword forward.

"Charge!" He cried, and his men grunted in response, crashing through the ruined gates. Roran ran behind the mass, shielded by their bodies. As the first of the men passed underneath the gateway, black oil poured down on them, searing their skin and melting their eyes. They hesitated as their eager comrades coiled on the ground and burned, only to be blasted by bolts that came crashing from crossbows. The second line of men fell like sacks of vegetables, quarrels going through their leather armor like knives through butter.

"Shields! SHIELDS!" A man cried, and there was a grunt as shields were raised. Opposite from them, orders were bellowed from inside the Fort's courtyard.

"READY, AIM, FIRE!"

Thuds erupted from shields as another round of quarrels were released into them. This time, however, they were ready, and the bolts cracked open wooden shields and punctured arms, but for the most part they did not reach vital organs of the infantrymen.

"Charge! Into the fort!" Newlyn cried behind them, and Roran rushed through, the patter of boots echoing his own footsteps. A row of crossbowmen were before them, hastily reloading their weapons until finally they dropped them and ran up the staircases of the wall. The men then entered the keep itself, crashing doors open and killing any who were found inside. Over the wall, the sound of battle hummed, Deligan's forces winning the battle on the outside of the fortress.

"The battle is won." A man said with a smile. Roran returned it, and then he heard a crash coming from one of the many doors. The men in the courtyard turned, and the door opened, a bloodied man with frenzy in his eyes looking at them.

"Lorgainn! LORGAINN!" He cried, and like a ghost, Lorgainn seemingly appeared behind Roran, and walked ahead of him.

"What is it?" He asked. His bone-armor was basked in blood, and a fox sniffed at his heels.

The man shook his head and stepped aside, and two more men appeared, carrying a third, his head down, dark brown hair covering his face. A fourth man brushed past him, and in his hands was a writhing baby _dragon. _ Lorgainn's mouth tightened as he caught sight of it, hands curling into fists.

"What is this . . ." He began. One of his men picked up the head of their captive, putting a dagger to his neck.

"What should we do with him, sir?" He asked. Roran froze. Eragon looked at him in the eye, fear written over his face.

"Eragon!" Roran cried, and the Pike man threw Eragon down in surprise.

Roran rushed to his brother.

Durza bled on the cold floor. He could feel it, feel _them, _ the hundreds of spirits within his body, writhing and fleeing. His wound bled profusely, blood staining the pale stone below him.

He was dying.

_Caomhim. _Durza wondered how the man survived . . . but he had no time for that now. The surviving mages were gathered around him, culled from the battle so that he could do one last task . . . and maybe prolong his life. The humans called Sloan and Garrow, captured from the settlement of Carvahall, were seated before him, inside a circle drawn with ash, their bodies naked.

Durza raised himself, wincing as his wound stung him and as the sound of violence rang above. They were in the depths of Gil'ead, and he hoped he had enough time to do what he needed to do.

"Have you taken the necessary precautions?" Durza asked. One of his mages nodded.

"They are ready." Durza smiled thinly.

"Good."

Durza projected himself into the man, leaving his body as he forced himself into the mage's. The man writhed and screamed, but Durza was too powerful. In the end, he opened his eyes, and saw the bleeding body of himself on the ground, lifeless and dying at the same time. He raised his hands, his new hands, before his new face, noting the largeness of them, noting how they quickly turned pale. He heard the whispering of his spirits as they adjusted to the new body.

"Summon the Ra'zac." He commanded, and his mages began, slashing the backs of Garrow and Sloan open and filling it with dirt that had been soaked in the ash of burnt wood. They screamed as their blood feel, and the circle began to glow as dark magic ebbed around them. Hands of shadow stretched over their faces, and Durza watched impassively as the men turned.

The one called Sloan grew a snout like a wolf's, half decayed and pink, revealing black gums and yellow teeth. Roaches crawled over the face of this new creature, a tail growing from Sloan's back and his arms and legs became covered with stained fur. The one named Garrow had a face similar to that of a raven's, and two wings sprouted from his back. Spiders fell from his beak like saliva, and he scratched at the stone with hands that ended with taloned fingers.

The Ra'zac. Servants of the Dark Creed. Durza knew that by doing this he would awaken _Him, _but he had no choice. Caomhim . . . this new rider. . . they had to be stopped.

The wolf creature regarded him with yellow eyes, bugs scittering over its face.

"We are the night of the earth."

"The bane of creation."

The raven _cawed, _and spread its wings.

"The lords of the _dead_'

"Kings of the undying marches beyond the world," The wolf growled, "Stewards _to Golhlobor_."

Durza felt the spirits within him tense at the sound of that dark name. _Golhlobor. The creator of Dark Magic. _

"I have a task for you." He started, and the Ra'zac listened with intelligent eyes that had been dead for over a millennia.


	32. Erm

I WILL BE POSTING TODAY but I have a few seconds before work so I decided to write this up. Firstly, we are on the cusp of 7,000 views. This is AMAZING, and I'm glad everyone is enjoying the story so far. The reason I have been delayed in writing is because I have been working on some Original Content (If you want maybe I could preview it in the next chapter? xD) And I HAVE ALSOOO been working on a totally NEW fanfic I'm gonna post on here, based on Game Of Thrones. I'm also restarting the Star Wars fanfic, so that is why Eragon was kinda on the backburner this week. I WILL post tonight, it will be a Murtagh chapter followed by a Morzan chapter. At 7,000 views, I can tell that people are getting really interested in this fanfic. It is about HALF finished, and I'm not sure if I should continue the series in this thread, or make a new fanfic, titled ELDEST. My Eldest will focus more on the war being fought, and btw Brisingr will pretty much be omitted. Everything important that happens in Brisingr can fit into a lengthened Eldest, which is what I plan to do. Obviously, the fanfic will end with Inheritance… it all depends on you guys. I have a story in my mind BEYOND inheritance, as you will see once it is finished. But if everyone wants more, I can write more. So, in closing, sorry about the drought, and I hope you guys enjoy the chapter today.


	33. Chapter 28

The feast began when the sun fell behind the dunes that lazily lifted themselves from the sandy ground. Inside the Tower, King Orrin sat at his massive table, suitors and nobles and courtesans and all of the panoply of court. Murtagh's cheek itched as he looked upon his own meal, a cut of roast pork, with sweetened bread doused in butter. Orrin sat far away from him, next to Nasuada and her stone-faced brother. Newcomers to the table were present as well, a half-dozen dwarfs, who agreed to assist in escorting Nasuada to their kingdom. They were all a few inches over five feet, with dark hair that reached the bottom of their pointed chins. Their eyes were black, and they bore muscle-bound bodies, contained in strange garb. High collars surrounded their necks, while stone slabs covered their shoulders, underneath which simple dark fabric was found. Between their legs, which were wearing ebony leather, a white flap of cloth hung, nearly to their knees. Their hands were covered by gloves, and around their wrists bracelets of rock hugged heavily.

But they were nowhere as interesting as Orrin's father. Murtagh had often wondered how Orrin had claimed the throne so young, and he had been answered- Orrin's sire abdicated his claim on behalf of his son. Murtagh could see why.

Killian Langfeld hid behind a silver mask, his blue eyes staring from two small eyeholes. However, his mask did not cover the ruin of his face entirely- His right ear was missing, simply a burned circle on the side of his head. His left ear seemed as if it had been _chewed,_ a mangled and pink flap of flesh. He was hairless, the top of his head and the sides of his face crawled with black veins that _throbbed_ underneath a layer of thin and cracked skin. Murtagh did not know what had happened to the man, and frankly, he did not wish to find out. Killian Langfeld was a terror.

Orrin did not like him, plainly, but there was more. The chambermaids he had been assigned were brutalized and beaten to near death. A young boy who assisted him when the man had stumbled returned to his quarters bleeding from his palm- Killian had stabbed him through the hand, as the boy was unfit to touch a Lord. Killian's own court followed him, some two hundred knights, two mages, and countless other servants. They seemed lively enough, save for the man's wizard. He was old, a shaven face and a bald head. His counterpart was also bald, but younger. They both wore the same expression, however, and they both had swampy green eyes, and were given the name "The Twins." Murtagh found them more than off-putting, and they sat by Killian now, laughing and eating with the rest of them.

"You haven't touched your food." Zidda said suddenly. Murtagh had forgotten his friend was seated next to him, and Murtagh smiled lightly.

"I see that it is safe to eat. I was afraid Orrin planned to poison me." Murtagh grinned. Zidda did not return his smile.

"You should eat. He notices you, and he will take it against you if you don't eat. He's dangerous."

Murtagh didn't have to be reminded. Orrin had taken to punishing him for every slight, real or imagined. His body ached from the constant beatings. The others around the court had taken to mistreating him as well- sensing their kings distaste for him, they shied away from Murtagh, treating him differently and often making him the end of cruel jokes. The thought flared Murtagh's anger.

"He has turned his anger towards me for no reason other than I am _better _than him."

Zidda's face glowed an ominous brown in the light of the candle that stuck out from the roasted corpse of a boar that was laid beside him.

"Of that I do not doubt, but you would be best if you did not speak such things. It will not matter- after this feast we will be on our way."

Murtagh had almost forgotten.

The feast _was_ being thrown for him. Rather, the men chosen to lead Nasuada to the dwarf kingdoms. They were twelve- Twelve hardy and skilled fighters that Orrin picked himself. Murtagh was the first of the picked, and Orrin, in his pride, would not go back on his word. There was a clicking, glass against glass, and conversation died as heads turned towards the sound. Orrin stood, shining in a tunic laced with gold, long sleeved with flared cuffs and wore pants fashioned from soft silk. His crown shone on his head, and the jeweled sword he maimed Murtagh with hung from a black belt.

"Tonight, we gather in honor of freedom. In honor of truth, and in honor of justice." Orrin paused, his eyes lingering at no-one in particular, and then started anew.

"For too long we have suffered blunder after blunder under the heel of Galbatorix. For too long we have paid for his sins. The Gods themselves spurn his prayers, and in the deep cold of night, the mother weeps, begging for a savior.

My fellow countrymen, this land was just the beginning. With the treaty we will strike with the dwarves, Varden territory will stretch from Surda to the edges of the homeland . . . and with that, our allies, still shackled with bonds born of treachery, will announce their intentions. My fellow Lords; those of you who left your keeps and castles to march down into this desert- I know the pain. I know that your bravery was met with death, deaths to your house and kin, pillaging of your lands. But I promise you this, you will be avenged. I have received word that the great northern House Pike has liberated Gil'ead, cutting of Galbatorix's expansion in the North. Even now, they root out Imperial loyalists and gather lesser houses to their name. The Great Houses of the East and West will join us, once the dwarves have added their strength to ours. This is our hour, this is our time, and I am your KING!" Orrin cried, and the men of the table cheered and roared, banging cups on the fine wood. The sound hit Murtagh's ears with a crescendo of noise, and even Zidda smiled. Murtagh however remained silent, a lock of his raven-black hair falling between his eyes.

_This fool has no idea what he is dealing with._ Murtagh intended to flee for home once they left. He would take Zidda with him, and then kill the Dwarves and leave Nasuada and her brother and the rest helpless in the desert. He had no great ill will towards them, but they were Orrin's pets, and had been aloof to his own suffering. He had not told Zidda . . . but he would, when the time was right. Orrin sat, and Killian spoke next, his voice muffled by his mask.

"The Langfeld line has persisted from the beginning of time. We united the mainland, fought off invasions from elf and dwarf and urgal, helped the ancient order of the Riders and turned enemies into friends. Even now I hear that Elves run from their homeland, waiting for us to reach the Dwarves, and some others taking up space with declared houses, vowing themselves to our cause." Killian coughed, and a man approached with a napkin, dabbing at the corner of his mouth. Killian grabbed the man's arm, and pulled him harshly down to the face of the table's hard surface. The man crashed against dishes and food, and Murtagh saw a splash of blood fall from the servant. Killian resumed.

"With this treaty, we sign Galbatorix's doom."

The room was silent, save for a few scattered claps. Orrin frowned, his fingers twitching. Two men came to drag the servant away from the table, and Killian watched impassively, before turning to his own meal, casually rebuilding his plate.

"That was ill-done." Murtagh muttered, to no one at all. But one of the Twins looked up at him suddenly, and _smiled. _ Murtagh averted his eyes immediately, and when he looked back again, the man had turned his attentions back to those around him.

The feast ended shortly after, and Murtagh left for the stables. His companions were with him then, Zidda among them. The Dwarves were found as well, silent and stoic. Nasuada and Nasuadon were among the stables as well, horses being brought out before them. In the end, they each received three horses for the journey. The dwarves had their own steeds, hardy and thick mares that they claimed would be able to carry them home and back, even from the edge of the earth. They rode their horses out from the stables, and Orrin stood with his father, shining in the dark night. A small crowd of nobles cheered them, and Orrin stopped the party before they were off.

"Once you secure the Dwarves, we will ride for the mainland." He promised, and pressed Nasuada's thigh.

"I wish you luck here." She said, her voice deep. Nasuadon bowed his head silently.

Orrin turned his head towards Murtagh, and grinned. He said nothing, but let his eyes linger on the bandage that hugged Murtagh's face.

"For Alagaesia!" He cried, and the crowd clapped, cheering and laughing.

They rode from the Tower then, into the deep desert, where Murtagh promised himself that they will meet their doom.


	34. another little thing I'd like to say

I shall be posting today. But also I'd like to inform anyone who cares that my original content is on amazon. I don't want to turn off any of my readers who think I'm trying to sell myself, so I ask you now: If you WANT to see it, I will add the title to the next update. If you don't, then I will not. It all depends on you guys. It's free for like five days, and after that it is one dollar (the cheapest price) IT'S A kindle book, so yeah. Just let me know in the form of a review.


	35. Chapter 29 part 1

Brom clutched his stomach as men towered over him. Two of their own lay dead, killed by his hand. Blood poured from his wound, and he breathed raggedly. They spoke, but he did not understand them; their voices far away and muffled. His eyes open and closed, opened again, and he saw a man with the face of a skeleton peering down at him. Brom opened his mouth, his voice playing on broken strings.

"Eragon . . . Saphira . . ." He stammered, and then there was blackness.

He remembered. He remembered when he had not been Brom, before the war, before Selena. Who was he? Durza had said it. Yes- That name, that cursed name.

_Caomhim. _

The morning breeze brushed through Caomhim's hair as he took a bite out of a ripe apple. The juice dripped from his grinning face as he watched Morzan flail with his training sword, attempting to hit Galbatorix. Galbatorix laughed, turning aside each blow, and then tripping Morzan over his sword with a deft strike. Morzan fell on his bottom, and Caomhim burst out laughing, bits of apple flying from his mouth. Morzan looked up sullenly, his face red with exertion.

"You're getting better." Galbatorix offered a hand to the young boy. Morzan took it, unsmiling. He rose, a hardy youth of fourteen, with short black hair and dark eyes. He was lanky, but strong, and intelligent as well. Caomhim found him to be one of the better prospects. Above them, dragons flew, massive and ancient beasts that bore ancient riders. The air was filled with sweet smells- blossoming flowers and honeyed meat and fresh bread entering Caomhim's nostrils. Morzan looked up to the sky as a shadow of a large dragon passed over them.

"I hope I am chosen." He said sadly, as if that possibility had already eluded him.

"You're one of the best students. You will be picked. If not, you'll still be trained. You could be a firemage, or a dragonguard . . ." Morzan frowned.

"But not a _Rider._" He snapped back, and Galbatorix recoiled. He bore a smile, but said nothing. He looked to Caomhim for support. Caomhim sighed, throwing his apple into a bush and approaching his two friends. They had quickly bonded with Morzan when he had arrived three years ago, a smart but quiet youth. The boy was well versed in history, bladework, and simple spells, and had the makings of a great Rider.

However . . .

Even the greatest prospects weren't picked sometimes. The eggs did not hatch for just anyone, and out of thousands of young and old sentient beings across the lands, only a handful of them hatched eggs. The dullest prospect could hatch an egg and the most brilliant youth could find himself rider-less, despite his skill. Caomhim understood Morzan's anguish.

"You just have to relax. Don't think- Just touch the eggs as they are presented to you."

Morzan looked up at him.

"How did you know when your egg hatched?"

Caomhim lifted his arm, and pulled down his sleeve, revealing his scar.

"You burn." He said grimly. Morzan looked at the wound with wide eyes, and Galbatorix erupted in laughter. Caomhim failed in keeping a straight face, smiling and laughing as well. Morzan glared, until the laughter eased him, and he allowed a smile.

"Ah! The rare smile of Morzan! We should write this day down." Galbatorix teased, and Morzan pushed him playfully. Caomhim watched them play, finding himself filled with joy. They were his brothers, and he loved them as if they were his own kin. _Is there anything better than this? Is there? _He asked himself. Suddenly, a large bell tolled, once, twice, three times. It seemed to vibrate the air, and Morzan squinted as the sound passed between his ears. Their smiles dropped as soberness returned to them.

"It is time." Galbatorix announced, and Morzan nodded. Galbatorix closed his eyes, and Caomhim knew he was calling his own dragon. Caomhim's own was still too young to carry more than himself, yet Galbatorix's dragon could carry a dozen men. The shadow of the beast brought night upon them.

"Shruikan!" Galbatorix bellowed against the heavy beating of Shruikan's wings. They stood in one of the many courtyards of the Rider's city, Doru Araeba. It was almost sixty feet long and the same length across, cobbled stone , tan in color, making up the ground as high rock walls surrounded it. Shruikan landed, and almost took up half of the space. The black dragon regarded them, deep grumbling sounds coming from its throat.

"Galbatorix. Morzan. Caomhim." Shruikan greeted, making his words vocal for Morzan's expense. They all greeted Shruikan in turn, and Caomhim was still amazed by the creature's size. Shruikan had not hatched for Galbatorix- It had chosen him. Shruikan had descended from the wild dragons, once that had waged war with life for centuries upon centuries. It was impressed by Galbatorix's drive and ambition, finding its own emotions were mirrored in his. The Elders were off-put by this paring, but allowed it none the less.

"How fares your Dragon, Caomhim?" Shruikan questioned cordially. Caomhim shrugged.

"She fares well. She's learning more advanced flight technique. From Glaedr. I think."

Shruikan _hmph'd, _black smoke pouring from his nostrils. They piled onto Shruikan's neck, using his spikes as handholds. They all wore protective leggings, so that his scales did not cut their clothing or skin. Galbatorix sat at the base of his neck, nearly on top of his head.

"We need to drop Morzan off at the Glass Chambers." Galbatorix commanded. Shruikan did not answer, but flapped his massive wings against the ground, and lifting into the air. His webbed limbs grew as the wind touched them, black and red, and his front legs and hind legs dangled below his body. It was rare for a dragon to have six limbs- legs and hindlegs, and wings besides, not counting the tail. Air brushed by Caomhim as they flew, Shruikan flying between massive stone towers erupting from dead volcanoes, and Caomhim peered over the side, watching as men and dragon both walked on streets that were as wide as four Shruikan's. The dragon swayed in the air, turning as the Glass Chambers came into view. Blackglass, crafted from molten rock, made up the building, a large oval surrounded by statues of men. Other dragons were there too, and prospects, young and old alike. Shruikan descended, bullying smaller dragons out of the way as he landed. Morzan jumped from his neck, and looked back up at Caomhim and Galbatorix.

"Don't be afraid." Caomhim said, smiling. Galbatorix parroted his statement, grinning as well. Morzan looked at them both, nodded, and turned away, walking into the Glass Chambers.

When Caomhim saw Morzan again, he was a Rider, a dragon babe cradled in his arms.

"What is his name?" Galbatorix asked as they huddled over the boy. Morzan smiled warmly, the dragon youngling glancing up at them with knowing eyes.

"_Murtaghen."_ He said, and Caomhim whispered the name to himself, amazed at the tiny black reptile.

"Murtaghen . . ."

Brom remembered the war next, remembered the blood, remembered the death. He was Caomhim. He was of the forsworn.

"Caomhim! _Why?!"_ one of his teachers had screamed. Caomhim could only grimace as he brought his sword down, cutting the man as easily as one cuts soft bread. Overhead, His dragon fought, snarling and bellowing gusts of fire as Shruikan led the assault, Galbatorix astride him. Kinure was in the room as well, his small dragon, plodding by him, reaching the boy's shoulders.

"The eggs, where are they?" He asked. His sword glistened with blood.

"They must have moved them . . . Damn it, we only have _three. _How are we going to rebuild the Riders with _three _eggs?" Caomhim swore, slashing his sword across the wall. It sent a spray of sparks into the room, and Kinure flinched away from the light. There was a roar then, loud and fearsome. Kinure looked at him, surprise in his eyes.

"Outside." Caomhim said, and rushed out of the Glass Chambers.

The city was awash in flame. Stone glowed hot as fire attempted to catch on its smooth surface, and armies, armies belonging to Galbatorix and his family and those allied with them- Marched along the wide streets. Ballista quarrels shot over head, felling dragons as the massive bolts cut through wing and stomach and neck. Dragonguards advanced on them then, dressed in gilded armor that shone in the fires. Longswords were in their gripped in their gloves, and Caomhim danced in battle, striking and defending as Kinure took up position. Kinure's dragon, Gintoss, too young to breath fire, fought with his claws and teeth. Caomhim impaled a Dragonguard with his blade, and then pushed the body into another one of his attackers. The guard tumbled on his dying comrade, and Caomhim snarled.

"Brisingr-Au Alyen!" Both bodies exploded in flame, the man who still lived screamed as his eyes boiled and dribbled from their sockets. He turned, just in time to see Kinure jump away from an axe, and then strike his attacker in the throat with the thin point of his sword, sliding between the Dragonguard's armor. He smiled at Caomhim as he shook his sword free of blood.

"Where's Galbatorix?" He cried, his voice sounding over the flames. Caomhim looked up to the cloudy skies, black smog obscuring his vision. The roar was heard again, thrumming and dangerous and awe-inspiring. It was then it crashed into the ground. Yormag. The giant dragon toppled stone towers as it fell, fire spewing from its mouth. Eleven dragons descended upon it, and Yormag screamed as their teeth ripped and tore. Shruikan bit at Yormag's throat, and Galbatorix cast bolts of spells at the massive beast. Shruikan was big, but even he was dwarfed by Yormag. Caomhim saw his dragon, brilliantly blue, rider-less, but ferocious at the same time. The others were seen in the flames as well, black smoke shifting between the flaps of wings. He saw Morzan, who had been so young, so impressionable . . . Dressed in black armor, spiked spaulders hugging his shoulders. Murtaghen screamed, endless flame snaking from his mouth that blinded one of Yormag's eyes. Yormag swatted at Morzan, and he deftly evaded the blow, and Yormag's heavy paw connected with another one of the Forsworn. The rider and dragon died instantly, crushed as Yormag's claws dragged them down to the earth. It was Galbatorix who moved now, jumping from Shruikan as the dragon bit down on Yormag's neck. His sword held above his head, he fell upon the beast, striking its eye, blood and fire and pus sprouting from the wound. Galbatorix screamed as he pushed his blade deeper, his clothes set aflame.

Yormag shuddered, and then fell silent in death.

(next part coming later, along with a morzan chapter. Obviously this is a flashback. Also, my book is found on . AT the search bar, click the search tab, and then select kindle store. Then, search for Primary Bloodline. See an ebook with a sword as the cover? There ya go, it is right there!)


	36. Chapter 29 part 2

That was how Vroengard fell. The rest of the realm soon followed. Galbatorix claimed the throne, and Caomhim stood at his right, Morzan at his left. They were the highest lords of the realm, ones who held absolute power. Years passed, decades upon decades, and they lived, waiting in their period of peace. Peace so hard earned, peace paid with by blood. In time, the common people forgot about dragons, and the remaining Forsworn scattered across the realm, some dying, others ending their own lives in shame. Caomhim stayed with his truest brothers in Uru'baen, assisting Galbatorix as he consolidated his power. Great Houses came to swear fealty, some even offering their sons as wards to the new King. Rumors of the previous king's offspring rising in the South went unheeded. Nothing could oppose them.

Except each other.

It all began with Selena. She had long dark hair, curled and thick. Light russet eyes innocent and wide completed her fair face, with a small nose and a mouth that always smiled. Morzan had fallen in love with her the moment he saw her. Selena belonged to House Ryk, a noble ally of Galbatorix's own family. As Galbatorix considered Morzan his own son, he thought it only proper that Morzan and Selena should be wed. She became Morzan's staunchest defender, his rock, his completion. In short time, she bore him a son. A bright babe, he was the mirror of his father, ebony hair and solemn eyes. Morzan named him after his dragon, Murtaghen. The boy came to be called Murtagh. Uru'baen was a large and vast castle, and Caomhim would traverse the winding halls, servants scuttling past him as he did so. Selena would often look at the city from her balcony, and after finding her there, Caomhim would join her.

Morzan was plagued by dreams of destruction. He spent his days locked in his library, reading old books that were scavenged from their former home.

"Leave him to his scrolls, they give him peace." Galbatorix had said, and Caomhim heeded his word.

That was until Morzan woke with madness, striking Selena after he dreamed of her stabbing his heart. Caomhim rushed to her aid, hearing her screams as he walked the snake-like halls of the castle. He was able to snap Morzan out from his insanity, but there had been a rift growing between him and Selena, and it grew even wider after that incident. Caomhim found himself spending even more time talking with Selena, Morzan avoiding her purposely, shamed by the sight of her.

It wasn't long before Caomhim and Selena began to share each other. It was a horrid thing, wrong from the start, and after they had lain with one another, Caomhim became ripe with guilt. Morzan was his brother, his friend . . . yet he lusted after Selena all the same. She had taken herbal remedies to make sure she was not filled with his seed, and one night, she came to him, her robe closed tightly around her body.

"I cannot do this any longer." Selena said, eyes tearing. Caomhim looked at her, and then turned his attention to his window, the starry night calm outside. He saw her reflection as well, her hands wrung over chest.

"He doesn't love you." Caomhim said finally, turning around to meet her. She was so beautiful, so perfect. He did not know what he would do, how he would survive without her touch, her kiss. Selena stiffened, her mouth tightening.

"Morzan . . . is stricken. He- What I did, what _we_ did is not fair, not to him. It ends now."

Caomhim smiled bitterly. "Where is he now? Where is your husband?"

Selena remained silent, looking at him with hatred and longing. Caomhim approached her, his hands caressing her soft cheek. He pulled her close, kissed her, softly at first, and then faster, his mouth enveloping hers. She broke free of his embrace, only to be pulled back in. Finally, she broke away, and when he reached for her, she slapped him, hard across the cheek. The blow stung, burning more than any wound he had suffered during the war.

"I- . . ." Selena left then, and that was the last time she had spoken to him. He saw her around the castle, playing with young Murtagh or talking with Galbatorix. He went to her spot, the balcony, desperate to speak alone with her, and he was heartbroken when she was never there. She greeted him kindly, when they crossed paths, but whenever he tried to pull her aside, she evaded him. During this time, he saw even less of Morzan. He heard the man scream at night, heard him as he rushed through the cold halls, retreating into his library. Soon, it came to be he never left the room, sleeping there and taking his meals inside the library as well.

When Murtagh was two years of age, Selena bore Morzan two sons. They named the larger one Hagganthil, after Selena's own father. The smaller one was called Rahadon, a rider from ages past. Things seemed to go back to normal- Morzan began spending more time with his wife and children, and Selena seemed happy. Even Galbatorix was jovial, his throne room filled with the innocent laughter of children.

But then Morzan's dreams returned. It happened at night, Selena's screams filling the castle. Caomhim and Galbatorix were both at her room at once, finding the horror with their own eyes. Murtagh . . . the toddler was covered in blood, scrapes and bruises all over his naked body. Morzan stood behind the crumbled child, his sword gleaming as he loomed over Selena, who huddled their two babes.

"Morzan, _STOP!" _she cried, and he raised his blade to strike . . . until Galbatorix spoke.

"Morzan. Enough." Morzan dropped his sword then, turning, his eyes sleepy and his face weary.

"I- I saw him kill me . . ." He stammered, and then fell over, crying. Galbatorix took Murtagh then, the boy whimpering as he was lifted. He nodded to Caomhim, and Caomhim went to gather Selena. He brought her to his chambers, the children she held screaming in fear as she stared ahead blankly. He stood before her, wanting to touch her, but at the same time refusing to move.

"I have to go." She said finally, and Caomhim understood.

They left shortly after, astride Caomhim's dragon. Selena sat behind him, her two children strapped to her person. They flew high above the night's clouds, silent and cold. She had not said where she wanted to go, so Caomhim went as far as he could from Uru'baen as possible. He flew north, heading for desolation, heading for someplace where he could be alone.

It was then Morzan was upon them. He rose from the clouds below, Murtaghen snapping at Caomhim's dragon. The two beasts were caught in a whirling ball of blood, fire, and claw, each one wounding the other. Morzan looked upon him with frenzied eyes, and Selena screamed, her babies crying as well.

"CAOMHIM! YOU WERE MY BROTHER!" Morzan boomed, his sword flashing across Caomhim's own blade. Their dragons separated, flew, and crashed together again, their roars filling the skies. Murtaghen clawed Caomhim's dragon across the neck, splitting skin and muscle and blood. His dragon yipped in pain, and then began to fall as life left her. Murtaghen flew above them, and then came hurtling down. Morzan himself jumped from his dragon, landing behind Selena on the dying beast.

Caomhim moved too slowly, turned when it was too late. He saw Morzan's blade slip between Selena's breasts, narrowly missing his two sons. He pulled the sword out from her body, and she looked ahead, her mouth opening and closing, until she went limp, her body falling from the saddle . . .

"No!" Caomhim cried as he leapt from his dying dragon and went after Selena, the two babes falling behind her.

"_Sternya Habentul!" _He stretched out his hands, and the two children vanished from the sky. He turned himself in the air, only to find himself basked by fire. The spell he used safely transported the boys to the ground below, and Caomhim hoped that someone, anyone would come across them before danger would strike. Murtaghen's fire stopped, and Caomhim opened his eyes, the silhouette of Murtaghen above him.

"_Treyna Obdhulorian._"

Lighting struck between Caomhim's ribs, and he fell faster, the last memory he had of Morzan was the sight of his dragon turning in the air, and flying to the west.

Brom opened his eyes, and Morzan sat beside him.

"Brom!" Morzan said happily, touching the man's hand as he rose. Brom opened his mouth, began to beg for forgiveness, until he saw that Morzan was not there . . . only Eragon. He wondered how he had not seen it sooner. Their hair and eyes were different, but he bore the same chin, the same ears, the same nose and cheekbones. Eragon looked like Morzan, but with Selena's curly brown hair and softer eyes, a kinder mouth, innocence whereas Morzan had a face that bore a look of youthful wisdom.

He was bandaged, and Eragon left the room. The coolness of the stone walls told him that they were still in Gil'ead, and he remembered the creature. _Durza. _He had escaped.

_If he brings news of my existence . . . and of this new Rider . . . _

Eragon returned with a grim-faced man, and another youth. This new boy looked like Eragon, except with sterner features, and a stockier build. Brom couldn't help but smile. He had done well, both of them lived. The dark man regarded him with cruel eyes, and he touched the hilt of his sword.

"I am Newlyn Pike, Lord of Gil'ead and defender of Mhmapir's peace, Leader of House Pike. You killed two of my men, but this boy tells me that you are a Rider, much like himself. We will send you to Mhampir, to decide what is to be done with you."

Brom looked at him, hearing his words but not understanding.

_They live, Selena. _

_They live. _


	37. ORIGINAL WORK AMAZON LINK

Pertaining to my original story… so basically in bursts this entire day I've been trying to link it as an update. Of course, it doesn't like me because computers (And all technology for that matter, as I write this my ipod broke… no more writing to Florence + the machine xD) SOO I linked the amazon book to my profile. If you want to look at it, just go to my profile and copy the link in your url (Without the spaces) Thanks everyone! Working on the map today and morzan.


	38. Chapter 30

He was in a sea of blackness. Tendrils circled around his neck, choking him and forcing his eyes open. He saw a sky filled with ebony flames, shadowy creatures pouring from a whirling vortex of purple and black. The ground was covered with skeletons, melting humans screaming as they were burned. On the horizon, all he saw were cracking flames, and a being taller than any mountain, larger than any sea, any dragon stood, a whip made of chiseled bone, bound by leathery skin in his cruel hands. His red-within-red eyes settled on Morzan as he choked in the black, whip raised.

_This is your future. The future you were doomed to prevent, the destruction that has found you. _

"NO!" Morzan jolted as he slammed his nose against dried paper. He felt his neck, his muscles tensed and his eyes heavy. A heavy glob of blood fell onto the ancient parchment, and he gingerly lifted a hand to his nose.

Another dream.

Morzan raised himself from his table with two hands, his cape folding around his body as if it were a part of him. He walked around the table, and approached the window of his library, opening it, the joints of metal squeaking with protest. The sun was rising, and Uru'baen looked magnificent as small and large buildings basked in the day's first light. It was all still here. Morzan closed the windows, and returned to the foot of his table.

_But for how long? _He had read the histories, the myths of a thousand cultures and races. From there, he called upon the stars, looking for guidance. He found them in the astral projections of the night, and then he knew. Selena didn't understand . . . nor did Galbatorix. He had relented in the end, but they died when Caomhim betrayed him. So why?

_Why am I still plagued with nightmares of the future? Of the Night Prince? _ He learned long ago that this being would spring from his own body . . . not his firstborn, but the ones who came after. He had to remove both of them from life, lest his dreams become a reality. He hadn't killed them then, no . . . but Caomhim caused them to fall, caused Morzan to kill Selena. There's no way the babes could have survived the fall . . .

Then again, he had never found their bodies. He was able to retrieve Selena's corpse, give her a proper burial on her people's lands. He had wondered if her Father had still lived then, but he didn't dare approach the castle. He wouldn't be able to face the man, stern faced and hard as stone. Morzan sighed, and left his library. Outside the room, Galbatorix's keep was coming to life- Servants rushed across halls, sweeping and dusting and doing other morning duties. He could smell breakfast being made- Fried bread, bacon, and steamed beef. Once, when he was younger, that smell would send he and Caomhim and Galbatorix running to the commons where they were trained. But now, it filled him with nothing, only distaste.

A Rider did not need food. Regardless, he found himself walking towards the throne room. The Forsworn were gathered, their armies ready . . . why did they wait? Morzan wanted to strike now- to remove the threat before it grew. Every day they woke to bad tidings, Houses declaring for Langfeld or breaking their alliance, refusing to pay taxes and send troops to fill Imperial ranks. For now, they had been able to punish the smaller Houses, raiding their land and burning their crops, putting the ruling families to the torch- Only to find that the Lord of the land had gone months prior, some taking their first born sons.

It was madness.

The guards before Galbatorix's throne room nodded and opened the double-doors. As always, he strode through, and as always, the red carpet leading to his old friend was filled with people who petitioned the King. The Langfelds had always been arms-length away from their realm, and Galbatorix had resented them for that. He preferred to involve himself with his people- as such his days were filled with solving disputes, settling trials, and even executions. All done by himself, for the peace of his realm.

Morzan had no patience to wait in line, so he moved past them, the citizens, peasant and noble alike, shying away from his aura.

"Are you sure of this?" Galbatorix asked as Morzan approached, talking to a dirtied man who looked as if he had killed his horse riding to get to Uru'baen.

"Yes, m'lord. It's true. I saw it with my own eyes, thousands of soldiers storming Gil'ead, some of em' with no skin on their faces."

"_No skin?" _Galbatorix asked, making a face of disgust. The man nodded.

"Yes, with red eyes. Demons they were, leading rebels to their own folly. I only got out due to my wits and my horse, Kirby he's named, but he died, only so I could bring you this news."

Galbatorix nodded. "I have received no message, by scrying-pool nor wing. Allon, have this man rewarded with gold and find him a new horse. He has proven his worth." The King's secretary, Allon, bowed, and led the man away.

"Thank you m'lord, thank you." The man echoed until he left the hall. Galbatorix eyed Morzan, and then looked up as the next man in line prepared to speak.

"That is enough for today." He said with a wave of the hand. The man opened his mouth, and then closed it, and then opened it again.

"But the day has just begun . . ." He trailed, and Galbatorix laughed.

"And it will begin anew tomorrow. I'm sure one more day would not hurt." Guards led the people out, all of them grumbling as Morzan approached the raised steps leading to Galbatorix's throne.

"_Demons. _I haven't even seen a demon." He said with a laugh.

_I have. In my dreams. _Morzan thought. Instead, he said. "Not Demons. But Pikes. Judging from the position of Gil'ead, they must have rallied from their Northern holdings and took the fort for their own. It will be hard to operate in the North with them in open rebellion."

"Durza was tasked with protecting Gil'ead . . ."

"He failed."

"I see that plainly enough." Galbatorix shifted in his chair.

"Have I been a good King, Morzan?" He asked silently.

"You have been more than good, my Lord." Morzan bowed. Galbatorix smiled weakly.

"I did it all for her, you know. Alyenne. Sometimes, I forget what she looks like, how her laugh made my heart melt . . . I have lived for centuries, remember countless spells, and yet I cannot perfectly imagine my love within my own mind. I often wonder . . . what if we had never fought the war. What if we had accepted the injustice we were dealt . . . " Morzan frowned.

"The Riders and the Langfelds had to have been overthrown. They were growing complacent and corrupt. No one blamed you for taking up arms."

"Yet the realm descends into rebellion." Galbatorix turned in his seat again.

"A King is only as good as the realm he serves. With my people turning against me, how could I be a good King?"

"They only support this Rebel faction because they claim to have one who descended from Langfeld. In the end . . . I suppose they fear you. They fear the King who cannot die. That is why they rebel."

Galbatorix smiled. "You're right. I . . . I never wanted this. It should have been you."

"You were the one chosen." Galbatorix laughed out loud.

"Yes, but it should have been _you." _Morzan looked down at the red carpet. As King, he would be an entirely different monster. As King . . . no, he couldn't even think of it.

"I would be a much crueler King than you, Sire."

"True. But a King needs cruelty to rule . . . to rule rightly, to have a strong reign. I fear I am not made of that kind of stock. Regardless of this, what have you come to me for?" Morzan spoke at once.

"I wish to march against the Rebels. Without you or the Forsworn. I can call my own banners. Retaking the North would be my first priority."

"But your dragon, he is not yet finished with the-"

"It is of no matter. I can subjugate the rebels in the North, and then swing down and defeat the declared houses to the west and east. When the Dragons are ready, we can all then begin our assault on Surda, and defeat this False King."

"Just yesterday, I would have refused you. Now, I am glad you asked. When will you be ready?"

Morzan's eyes gleamed.

"At once."


	39. Chapter 31

OKAY THIS IS A CHAPTER JUST BEAR WITH ME I GOT A FEW TINGS TO SAY. First, guys, we friggin got 1.7 THOUSAND views already this month. This is freaking amazing. I think we hit 8,000 on Friday/Sunday and we already have 8,405. That is amazing, and I truly thank you. You guys are the best.

Seriously.

Okay, you can stop blushing, it's unbecoming . . . Anyway, map is "kinda" done. I'm a noob at the program so I don't know how to shade landmasses different colors, so yeah will have to work on that better. I can tell you a few things about the "Fanfiction" world of Eragon.

There are four continents

Much greater diversity in terms of human races and cultures

In Alagaesia, Surda is far south. There are scattered settlements past Surda, and then beyond even that point is a line that not even the most seasoned adventurers cross. That will be defined on the map and you can expect that to come later in the story.

On to more business. Again, I thank you guys for the views. But I noticed some glaring continuity and general spelling/grammar errors in the past chapters so today and tomorrow I will go through and correct them. I think at one point I said:

( Eragon had never seen an Urgal.)

And then went into GREAT detail about how he and Roran had seen an Urgal. LOL. So as a respect to you and myself, I will go back and correct the errors. One more thing . . .

THE LINK to my original work is WORKING on my profile page. Some people have seen it, but I implore you all to click on it when you get the chance. If you like my writing style, you'll obviously like this. Basically, the book is about a group of siblings who are descended from Half men/half angels, and thus gain powers. On the flip side, Angels (good and bad) control world events, and the "bad" angels are preparing the 18th century world for a cataclysmic war that will be the ruin of everything. Yeah, pretty intense. It's a good semi-long read, and I really want to do a sequel for it. Also, it's only one dollar (If you're an Amazon Prime member, you can borrow it for free, and the site gives you a free preview anyway.) So if you are interested in helping me out, or just like my writing style, PLEASE click on my name, go to my profile, right click the highlighted story "Primary Bloodline" And go zooming right ahead.

If you're still here after my sappy thanks and shameless self-promotion, here's Eragon.

_I was supposed to do it days ago. _

_Last Night. _

_Now. _

"The stars are as bright as God's eyes, Murtagh."

Murtagh smiled at Nasuada, who looked at him, a half-grin written on her face. They sat side-by-side, large cloaks spread out below them, covering the sand of the desert. Murtagh himself peered at the heavens. The stars _were_ bright, blue beacon fires lit across a sea of blackness, and for a moment, Murtagh forgot who he was.

And then he remembered.

_You're a fool. Either you run now, or they find out and kill you. Kill the dwarves, and leave Nasuada and her brother to the mercy of their desert. _The thought always came to him, a jarring of the mind that was so strong he felt as if he was coming down with a massive headache. Yet, he couldn't listen to his own advice.

He had grown attached.

The dwarves were amiable, in their own quirky way. They had a strange culture, and all of them had been surprised when the leader of the group, a dwarf named Neybark Wind, was second son of the King.

"You're a Prince?" Nasuada had said, surprised. Neybark gave them a half smile as he gripped his reigns with six fingers.

"My eldest is a Prince. We have different rules of succession than men or Elves. Only they who are born first lay claim to the throne. As such, my elder brother inherited the name of my father, his House, and the kingdom. Me? I was born second, and while I am higher in the social system than most commoners and even nobles, I was given only a first name."

It was Murtagh who spoke next, knowing he would hate himself for it later.

"Then how did you come to be called _Wind?" _he asked.

Neybark smiled as his eyes gave off a reflection of sights prettier than the sand dunes before them.

"A second born must find a profession, a Guild, if you will, before they turn the page of adulthood. If they fail to do so, they are simply conscripted into the _Dwaribahem_. In your tongue, it is called Dwarfbane. A training so brutal and visceral, once it is finished those admitted are dead on the inside, minds wiped save for being able to do simple tasks. In return, they become great warriors, guards to the _Gun-nam Gun-la, _King of Sky and Stone. This practice was done to keep siblings from stealing the throne from their eldest brothers. The Gun-nam Gun-la can also pick people inside his family to go throughout the training: One of our Kings during the first wars had all of his uncles, cousins, and brothers turned into Dwaribahem, fearing that they would come across him during his war. In a political sense, his actions were genius, as it turned out his uncles had been conspiring to rid him of his head. But still . . . a brutal life."

"If you were in the Royal Family, you live a life of constant fear." Murtagh said suddenly. He knew how that felt, as a boy he feared his father more than any god. When the madness was set upon Morzan . . . there was no stopping him.

"Exactly. A Guild is a protection, due to the fact that once you are a part of one, all formal ties are cut, meaning even your relation to any family is stricken. I know I came from my father's loins, but the keeper of family records no longer does, nor does the birth-seer. My existence has been erased, and should I be mad enough to attempt to claim the throne should my brother die, I would be put to death without trial, due to the fact there being no evidence of my claim."

Nasuada covered her eyes as a gust of wind blew past. Murtagh squinted, but Neybark remained vigilant. It was only at that point that Murtagh realized that Neybark had _two _eyelids. One of skin, and one of a clear shell-like material that protected his pupils.

"No evidence? What of your Father? Your Mother?" She asked then.

"Once born, I was given a name. That is all. I lived in the Royal House, yes, but as a _ward. _All second sons and third sons and fourth sons live as I did, as wards and adopted children, despite having direct blood relations. In the records, it is written as such. An adoption, not a birth of a newborn secondson. This is done to further protect the King."

Zidda was listening intently on his own steed, opposite to Murtagh. He was like that- He would never speak unless spoken to, but took in everything. He must be amazed- In some ways, Zidda had lived better than this forsaken Prince.

"A cruel existence." Murtagh said.

"You may think so. But that is how peace is kept. Our women may bear as many as thirty offspring. How would our people fare if every new moon there was a new usurper? Or worse, a youth manipulated into open revolt due to the whisperings of a man who would instill him on the throne as a puppet leader? The girls . . . they are married off to seal political alliances, and there is always want of them. Boys . . . they have no use. No noble wants to marry his daughter to a second son. It is either the Guild or the Dwaribahem."

They plodded on for a few silent moments after that. Neybark spoke as if this was simply routine, yet Murtagh did not even know what he would do in that situation. He had come across some dwarf traders who entered Galbatorix's court, yet this . . . The idea that it was possible for the dirty merchants who haggled with the King were in fact trueborn Princes almost brought a smile to Murtagh's face.

"The Guilds are each controlled by one of the many Trade Families. There are Guilds for all types of trade that is able to be sold, Merchant armies, traders, even those who would sell their own bodies. All of that is able to be chosen by a second son. I had always loved seeing the underground waterways fill with ships, snaking in _Rharib-_made tunnels as they slowly escaped from the dark earth, and into the riverways and then the oceans. As such, I chose to be a Ship-bound Merchant. There can be more than one Guild with the same vocation, which leads to stiff competition between Trade Families, which in turn leads to greater profit for the King. I came to be called _Wind _due to my adeptness on ship, with sails and rope. I have been wherever the sun sets, seen people and things that you would never believe. People have looked down on my kind ever since we were subjected in the wars, but now it should be the other way around. Everything you own and touch came about, in some small way, from the actions of an _Eharib." _

Murtagh had surmised that the words _Dwarib, Eharib, and Rharib _were what the dwarves called themselves once they had picked a Guild. Eharib must mean one affiliated with trading, or at the very least a ship-traversing merchant, like Neybark.

"Murtagh?" Nasuada asked, calling him from his musings and back into the night. Zidda, Neybark, and the others were all sleeping, save for he and Nasuada. He did not know when they first began to speak, and what began as stiff conversation quickly flowered into something more. He lowered his eye from the sky and looked upon Nasuada's face. It was long and sharp, ebony and smooth. She had slightly slanted eyes and full lips, with a flat nose and a sharp chin. Strong jaws assisted her while she spoke, and strands of hair darker than Murtagh's own fell from her tied-up bun.

"You fell silent."

"I was . . . thinking."

"Ah. This is quite the place to lose yourself to thought. So vast, so wide and yet so closed. I always feel as if I am trapped when I cross the desert. It is worse than any prison."

"How so?" Murtagh couldn't disagree more. The desert was the epitome of freedom. Flat, save for the dunes, quiet, save for the passing desert direwolf or bandit; and it seemed to go on forever . . .

Nasuada seemed to have been reading his mind.

"Because it goes on forever." She said with chilling finality.

"In a prison, you know your confines. Four walls and a window, if you're lucky. You know every part, every corner, every crack in the stone- But the desert . . . it goes on forever, here. Tell me, if we did not have our guides, would you not quickly become lost? How long until our food and water runs out? The desert is the _worst _prison because you are _free._ Free to hope that over the next dune, there is a remote village rich with water. Free to think that the raiders riding up on you are actually merchants, willing to bring you home. Baseless freedom is the prison of thought, and the desert is the physical epitome of that. So now you have these two things running in tandem- tell me, what is a horror worse than this?"

Murtagh had no answer for her. He looked at her, wanting her yet knowing he couldn't, wanting to run, but being unable to. Nasuada cocked her head.

"Have I offended you?" She asked, her slight accent rich with music.

"No- It's just . . . I never knew you thought so strongly about this."

"When you are raised among the wandering tribes, you grow up hating your home."

"I hated my home." Murtagh said involuntarily, and he winced when Nasuada asked him about where he was raised. He had always evaded the question, unwilling to lie to her, or worse, be caught within one. But now, it seemed as if he had been backed into a corner.

But Murtagh was smart, and knew the best lies had ample truths hidden within them.

"I was born in the capital. Uru'baen. But not in wealth. My family was part of a quickly marginalizing middle-class, abused by the tax system."

"From Galbatorix."

"No. From the corruption born from the greed of the regional Governors; they are the ones who oppress the people. Galbatorix was always kind."

"So you've met him?"

_Time for another lie. _

"Somewhat . . . sometimes, he would ride through the city, and talk to the young children. He would give us each a gold coin, and we would go running to buy food or toys or two pairs of shoes."

Murtagh smiled then. That was a truth, as Galbatorix had often taken Murtagh along with him.

"A good King treats his people's children." He had said, and Murtagh heeded his words. Galbatorix had been the father that Morzan never was, and he wouldn't allow Nasuada to spurn his reputation.

"of course, my father took the money . . . but one day, it wasn't enough. Circus men came to our part of the city, telling parents that they could take children and teach them great feats and wonders. In truth, it was masked slave trade, and those who gave up their children were given 40 gold pieces. I was quickly sold. And here I am today."

Nasuada looked away from him. "I'm sorry . . ."

Murtagh brushed hair away from his eyes, smiling.

"Don't be. It is life."

It was then she fell upon him. Hard and strong, she pushed him down to the bristled furs of their combined cloaks, and he could feel the sand churning underneath the clothing. She kissed him heavily, her tongue slipping in and out of his mouth with savage grace. She pulled away then, undoing her hair pin, and her long locks fell down to the bottom of her chest.

"What are you doing? The others-"

"They will not wake. You said it true, Murtagh. This is life. Tomorrow, we could all wake to slavers at our throats. We could find ourselves waking to see the dwarves abandoned us and took our supplies. The sky could come burning around us- But as you said," She leaned down on him, her lips brushing his ear.

"_That is life. And so is this. Do you desire me?" _ she asked. Murtagh knew he did. He had wanted this, but he knew if he did what she wanted, there would be no turning back. He would be bound to her cause.

_No. _

"Yes," He rasped, and Nasuada grinned.

"Then let us experience life."


	40. Chapter 32

They were the children of night. Sixteen of them circled the black fire, deep in the woods of their realm. Tattered cloaks surrounded faces darker than the black sky, devoid of stars. Their faces were devoid of joy. Sharp ears poked through holes cut out from the sides of dirty cowls, and blonde hair fell over eyes as blue as chrysocolla.

"Do you see anything?" One of them whispered, hushed and frightened. Their leader, a shaman named Herzig Bloit, ignored the question, watching the movements of the ebony blaze. The night was still, no wind passed through the trees that watched their dark ritual. Herzig Bloit leaned over the fire, inhaling the flames as they sprung into his nose. Some of the Sealed Elves gasped and recoiled in fear, but the most seasoned of their acolytes simply watched with their bright eyes.

Herzig opened his mouth slowly, gray mist escaping from his sharpened teeth, rising into the night like a freshly slain soul.

"It is time." He said, rising to his full height. His arms were striped with swirling tattoos, and one of his ears was missing. Scars were racked across his face, and underneath his black robes, he commanded a body that was honed and brimming with strength. His disciples that gathered around the fire parted as two higher-ranking acolytes dragged a Laen Elf to Herzig. The Elf had been beaten so harshly that his face was almost as black as his Dark counterparts, with eyes swollen shut and a mouth filled with broken teeth. His naked body had been cut and burned, three days of torture that left him on the brink of death.

"We were powerful, once." Herzig began. The speech was routine for his acolytes, but the newest disciples listened aptly, ears eager.

"We had ruled all of the Elves. Before the curse. Before we were _burned." _

"_What was burned will rise from the ashes, a people of the Prince." _The voices of the acolytes said, whispers in the cold air. Herzig grasped the Laen Elf's head as his two acolytes dropped him and joined the circle. In Herzig's right hand, a thatched dagger was found, evil in shape and design. Dried blood painted the long blade, and the handle was crafted from bone.

"I have foreseen our rise. Our return to greatness. The Prince stirs in the west, and his sire, our forebear, _Golhlobor." _

"_May his dark art forever linger in our mind, as our bodies have been sealed." _The acolytes sang, their voices rising from a whisper.

Herzig leveled his dagger on the neck of the Laen Elf, the tip of it poking the white flesh.

"We are descendants of Golhlobor, sealed with blackness because they feared his _New Magic. _They sealed us with blood, and Golhlobor screams within his prison. But as they have imprisoned us with their own blood, we shall in turn free ourselves with the blood of their sons."

"_Golhlobor, Lord of Night, Father of Darkness, hear our prayer, free us, Father, aid us against the High Elves, against the Elves of the Wood, and against all who oppose us. Give us your strength, Father, so that we may one day free you from your crypt, so that you may watch as your Prince destroys the land with your own eyes." _

Their voices rang together beautifully, melodic and thick with anguish. A tear fell from Herzig's eye, trailing down his cheek, silver in the moonlight.

"Golhlobor, bless us."

The knife drove into the Laen Elf's throat, spilling bright blood into the black flames. The fire greedily ate the blood, dancing and licking the air and growing larger. Herzig pushed the body of the Laen Elf into the small pyre, and the body exploded in heat. The acolytes moaned and cut themselves with knives, weeping and crying and screaming. Herzig watched the body slowly burn, the smell of fired flesh bringing a smile to his thin lips.

"Golhlobor has heard us. Golhlobor will lend us his strength. He sends us his agents, wings that beat against the night."

The moans of Herzig's followers reached an all-time high, and Herzig himself shuddered in ecstasy. He saw them, saw them written on the curled and burning skin of the Laen Elf.

_Wings of Night, Birds of His Dark Grace, Banes of Light. _

They would soon be ready to make themselves known to all. And soon, they would be prepared to march against the Elven capital, and when Islanzadi's head hung from Herzig's neck, all would know that Golhlobor has returned.

_I am the catalyst. I am the Black Fire. _

Roran danced backwards, his blunted hammer dancing between his hands. His opponent, Eragon, pressed forward, his sword, also blunted, rising off of the hilt of Roran's hammer with a loud _ting. _All around them, men of Pike watched as the two brothers fought. Roran dug his feet into the slightly wet dirt of the training yard as Eragon renewed his assault. Roran turned away each blow, his long hair flying about his face. Eragon exhaled deeply and retreated, then running for Roran's left flank. Roran turned, ducking as Eragon's blade passed over him. He plunged the butt of his weapon into Eragon's stomach, and his brother grunted in pain as he fell over.

"Well, that's a win if I've ever seen one." The arm's master said with a shrug. Scattered claps praised Roran, who held out a hand to his brother. Eragon looked up, smiling as his face shined with sweat.

"You're good." Eragon complimented, wincing as Roran pulled him up.

"Did I hit you too hard?" Roran asked. Eragon shook his head.

"Nothing that a good night's sleep won't fix."

"You may not have a night." Roran said, his smile disappearing. Eragon looked at him, a confused smile on his face until he realized what Roran was speaking of.

"You don't mean-" He began.

"Yes, you leave tonight. You, Brom, the dragon . . . and the elf."

Eragon's eyes widened as his ears caught the last word off of Roran's lips. He smiled as he looked down at his brother as they walked from the training yard, men clasping Roran on the back as he passed them.

"You like the idea of that, don't you?" He grinned. Eragon blushed shamefully.

"I- I had a dream about her, she's the reason I came."

"Then you better hope this Lord Pike decides to keep you. Some of the men are very upset about Brom's murders." They walked underneath a large white tent, and inside the covering tables were spread about. Men lined up at pots half their size, holding out dried bread, the center of them cut out, and cooks poured a hardy soup of potato, meat, and onion into the bread-bowls.

"It wasn't his fault." Eragon said in a hushed tone.

"They attacked us." He added as he was handed a breadbowl. Roran watched, amused as Eragon inspected the food, wiping dirt off of the crusted surface. Roran took his own, and then found a line to one of the many soup pots.

"Regardless of that, they are not supporters of Brom. But it has been said Lord Pyke puts resourcefulness before relations . . . he may not care about losing two infantrymen if he's gaining two Riders, and a dragon besides."

It had been Eragon that saved Brom from instant execution, telling them that Brom was a rider who fought Galbatorix in the war. That warranted enough interest from Newlyn to believe they should be brought to Mhampir. Them, along with the elf. Roran and Eragon retrieved their food, and chose an empty table to seat themselves in. Eragon ate quickly, slurping and nearly choking on his meal.

"You haven't changed at all." Roran said, smiling easily. He leaned forward, looking at his muddled reflection showing in his soup.

"Garrow . . ."

Eragon tensed.

"We already talked about this, Roran." He said softly, placing his wooden spoon down on the table.

"Hey may still live."

"And if he doesn't? What then?"

Roran felt anger rise within him.

"I took you for dead. And yet here you are, stuffing your face. Once Katrina was safe, I vowed to search for him. Alive or otherwise. We owe him that much. You have to help me."

Eragon frowned.

"I can't . . ."

Roran was dumbfounded.

"What do you mean you _can't?" _

"Brom told me that as a Rider, I have a responsibility to the realm that I cannot shirk. I cannot place personal family before my duties-"

Roran slammed his hand on the table, and men glanced over at them.

"What duties? Eragon, you are just a _boy. _Garrow raised us as if we were his own sons. The rest of the survivors want to come with me. Newlyn has said that with the capture of Gil'ead, he will need men to scout the Northern holds and spread the word of Pike's victory to the smaller Houses. He has decided to place _me _in command. If you would simply wait at Mhampir's keep . . ."

"If he decides to let us go, we must continue to the Varden. Brom said that I would be safe-"

Roran scoffed.

"_Safe? Your adopted father is somewhere out there, starving or decaying, and you worry about your own safety?" _

Eragon straightened in his chair. "As the last Rider, my life is more important-" Eragon paused, his eyes wide as he realized what he was about to say. Roran laughed incredulously.

"You make me sick."

Roran left the tent, leaving Eragon a cooling soup as his only company.


	41. Chapter 33

A/N (Sorry about the delay. This chapter took me longer than usual, for some reason it was really hard to conceptualize and write. Enjoy, hopefully…)

Durza followed the Raz'ac into the forests beyond the long western plains of Gil'ead. They walked hunched over, black robes dripping with frigid rain, hoods dropping as water dripped from the edge of the cloth and onto their snouts. All he wore was what the man he had possessed had himself, a thin cloak that was sticking to his body, the cold moisture clinging to his pallid skin. They brushed between small trees and dying bushes, more twig and wood than green leaf. Half-melted snow shifted between their feet, and Durza shuddered as the wind came, sending a fresh gust of the Raz'ac's stench into his nose.

"You said that they were at Gil'ead. Why are we retreating?" Durza asked finally, holding his nose with a cool sleeve. One of the Raz'ac, the one with the face of a wolf, turned, centipedes falling off of his long nose, and wirey bloodworms, thin and ghastly, dribbled from his decayed mouth.

"They are too strong, too fortified. They will leave Gil'ead soon, and that is when we will strike." It said. The voice of the beast sounded like rocks crashing together, as loud as an avalanche but as quiet as a whispering wind. It looked at Durza with bloody eyes, seeping with malice and wanton bloodlust.

_Ra'zac. _ They were _his _servants, entities entirely made from dark magic, fused with races that once roamed the earth- but no longer. When the Dark Mage known as _Golhlobor _attacked all of creation thousands of years ago, the Ra'zac made up his undead armies. Golhlobor was defeated, sealed in a formless waste, the seal itself crafted from bloodmagic, and its power is fueled by the continued existence and lifeforce of the High Elven elite. But Durza had summoned the Ra'zac in his desperation, and he _knew _that this caused Golhlobor to awaken, and no doubt the fallen elf was watching this strange new world through the red and half lidded eyes of his deranged soldiers.

"We go south, crossing the forest and mountains. Then, we turn and go back north. This way, we will catch your pray unawares as we attack from behind." The Raven-faced one squeaked. The spirits within Durza's mind had taken to naming the Ra'zac: the wolf was called Sharptooth, and the Raven was simply named Beak. It was those names the spirits used now, communicating with Durza, hidden from the eyes and ears of the Ra'zac.

_Do not go any further with this abominations. They are evil, fueled by destruction. Even Shadow Spells are more pure than these beings. _

Another Spirit agreed, adding its thoughts to the whirlwind of voices that rose and fell with the wind inside Durza's mind. _You could defeat them. Catch them by surprise, and cut them down! You have the power waiting at your fingertips! _

_Pots, socks, slocks, chocks, flocks . . . _

_Enough! _Durza snarled within himself, and for once the spirits consented, falling silent.

_I have no choice. I need to find this Rider and bring him to Galbatorix. _

_But at the cost of this? You are mad. _

_MAD! MAD! MAAAAAD! _

Durza fell over, holding his head tight as the voices screamed in unison. He cried out in pain, wet snow melting into his clothing as he rolled about on the ground. Slowly, the voices subsided, and he gingerly rose, picking himself up and looking ahead. The Ra'zac had moved on without him, their black figures swaying as they moved deeper into the forest. Durza pulled his hood tighter around his head and trudged on after them. He squeezed between naked bushes and twisting trees, gnarled and frostbitten. A few trees were still green, brilliant against a bleak landscape of white and brown. Above them, a cloud-covered sky rolled, gray and dark and bitter.

_Caomhim. _

Durza hadn't believed it at first. He was alive.

But how? Had Morzan failed in killing him? Caomhim's dragon was dead . . .

Durza smiled. Once he got in contact with Galbatorix, this news would cover up his failings. Durza wrung his hands together as he moved forward. He was closer to the Ra'zac now, and their stench was unbearable. Rotting flesh, blood, and even fecal matter were all combined together to create the creature's unmistakable smell, and the wind only made it worse, occasionally blowing into his face.

War would be upon the land soon.

Yes, there had been a few skirmishes, a few minor battles . . . but Durza knew deep within himself that the entire continent would soon be thrown into chaos, and whoever won the war would still be in danger, as long as Golhlobor's darkness loomed on the horizon . . . The Elf still had worshippers, and even mages who dug into his long-forgotten magic scrolls, learning his secret art. Durza himself knew a few spells of Dark Magic, but most had been supplanted by Shadow Spells, diminishing their reliance on Golhlobor's language. But summoning the Ra'zac . . .

The feat was entirely of dark magic. A spell, such a potent one at that, would be enough to slightly weaken the blood seal that kept Golhlobor contained, and Durza knew that the being was watching from beyond this world.

_Have I done the wrong thing? _Countless hours of useless torture upon the Elf.. and then the siege . . . he was driven by stress to do what he did, but now he wondered if it would have been better if he had simply ended his life in the bowels of Gil'ead. They began to walk up on an incline, and slowly the thickness of the trees began to separate. The rain seemed to reduce to a light kiss, and fog claimed the forest below them, the tips of trees sticking out from the gray sea like abandoned towers.

_Once Golhlobor is freed, this world will be awash in fire. He will retake his land, and when he does . . . _

_Nothing living will remain. _

Durza followed the Ra'zac away from the mist, and above the lowlands of Alagaesia.


	42. SAPHIRA EATS ERAGON

This isn't a chapter so you'll hate me for this but I don't care. We finally made it, guys.

OVER TEN THOUSAND VIEWS! This fanfic has grown SO fast and I am really indebted to each and every one of you that comes back to read more. I really am. You guys make me happy, and it is a drive for me to continue to write. As I said, this fanfic is reaching the halfway mark, and the plot thickens. However, as such, and being that this has so many views . . . I don't want to say it isn't my TOP priority, just . . .

I have my Game of Thrones fanfic. And soon to be posted Twilight rewrite. Expect AT LEAST three chapters a week, but since this fanfic has so many views I now have time to work on other stuff. But I WILL update this tomorrow, and probably Sunday if I don't have work due to the snow. ALSSOOO

HUGE thanks to everyone that bought my amazing and underpriced one dollar book on amazon (Link is in my profile). You know it makes my day when people pm me saying that they really enjoyed it. So I have a little goal. It would be amazing if by the end of march I can get a measly 10 sales on it. That is my goal, and if you are an adventurous reader willing to take a chance, I beg you to look it up. Again, info in my profile. Still, a huge thanks to those of you that parted ways with those four quarters. So yeah, this was just my big thank you to everyone who supported the Eragon fanfic and my original work. Update will come tomorrow, and if you REALLY want to read something from me, I updated my GoT fanfic today. So sorry about this, but I really wanted to thank you guys. You're all sexy and awesome.


	43. Chapter 34

A heavy knock rounded on Orrin's door. His chambermaid, a yellow-haired and blue eyed girl from western Alagaesia, giggled as she pulled the covers over her naked body. Orrin sighed as he raised himself from his bed.

"I am busy. Get one of my councilors." He called, and he heard the voice of his father answer.

"Now, Orrin."

Orrin bit his lip in anger and turned to the girl.

"Get dressed." He ordered, and she nodded, hopping from the bed and pulling her clothes together. Orrin himself sauntered into his wardrobe, and pulled a brown robe around his naked body. He went to his door, opening it to two crossing spears, and the image of Killian behind them.

"Let him through." He said dully, and the spears separated as Killian strode into Orrin's chambers. The girl rushed past them, and Orrin caught Killian's red eyes as they followed her movements. Orrin sat at the foot of his bed and crossed his arms. His father never removed his mask: The man's face hidden from eyes that would be disgusted by the horribly mangled and disfigured face of the former King. His father wore a heavy black cloak, parted only by the jutting golden hilt of his sword. Wide shoulders hid underneath the cape, and Killian's boots hinted ominously from the bottom of his form.

"What do you want?" Orrin asked finally, dropping his eyes from his father's baneful stare.

"Have you received word from your diplomatic party?" Killian inquired casually. Orrin gave his father an annoyed smile as he brushed his hair away from his forehead.

"Last I heard they were moving along nicely. It is troublesome to send messages, so I ordered them to only use three birds. This was the first I received." Orrin informed. Killian raised a hand out from his body, folding the fine black fabric of his cloak as it revealed a muscled arm. His hand was clad in green silk, and he tapped his thumb on each one of his fingers.

"You should have had them bring a mage."

Orrin scoffed.

"You put too much trust in magic. Besides, it would not do us well to send a mage with a diplomatic party. Doing so would even make human rulers nervous, so imagine the effect it would have on those dwarfs?" Orrin smiled, relaxing his arms.

"I must admit, they are much taller than I assumed."  
Killian returned his hand within his cloak.

"They are not to be trifled with. The dwarves are much stronger that you believe. Stronger than us. And even greater than the Empire. I have come to bring you this." Killian produced a scroll of paper, flipping it towards Orrin. Orrin frowned and caught it with one hand, undoing the red string binding it in the process.

"What's this?" He asked as he unrolled the parchment.

"A map. It seems our world is much larger than we first thought."

Orrin could see that. He recognized Alagaesia, and the small islands surrounding the mainland . . . even the deep dwellings of Surda. But there were _more _landmasses, small and large, clusters of islands deep in the map's brown oceans. And Surda . . . the landmass seemed to continue until the bottom of the map. The words were in a different language, but pictures marked areas. As his eyes rolled down Surda's drawing, he saw images of men with the lower bodies of horses, stallions with horns, and ghastly banshees.

"A _dwarven _trading map. One of the Twins was able to steal one from the creatures and then transmute a replica, returning the original without incident."

Orrin spat. "Magic . . ."

But the value of this map could not be ignored. A vast world was hidden before their very noses, and Orrin now held the key to the gateway. Orrin rolled up the map, placing it on his unmade bed.

"Can it be translated?" He asked.

"The Twins would need to travel with you to the dwarven kingdoms to make a proper translation. That is, if a deal can be struck between our two kingdoms."

"Nasuada will not fail me." Orrin stated comfortably.

"You're a fool and more, Orrin." Killian said softly, shaking his head.

"Watch your words, you speak to a King." Orrin retorted, but his voice cracked at the last moment, and a deep rumble was heard from Killian's chest.

Laughter.

"I speak to a foolish child. I have given you a very powerful tool. But how will you use it, I wonder?"

Killian moved towards him, thrusting his hand out from his body. Orrin ducked, falling forward at Killian's waist. A second hand shut up into Orrin's stomach, lifting him so high in the air Orrin felt his feet lose touch with the ground. Killian caught him by the hair, wrapping silky fingers around Orrin's throat.

"You have no _ambition. _You must begin now. Hire merchant armies, hire shipbuilders . . . while the dwarves are distracted, _we _will pounce. Using their trade routes, we will plunder their own profits underneath black banners and ships as elusive as ghosts. Then, once the war is won, we will turn our attention on the dwarves directly."

Killian dropped Orrin and turned his back on him, leaving Orrin to fall crumpled on the floor, coughing as air rushed back into his lungs. Orrin looked up at his father's silhouette with watery eyes.

"And who will do this? If a deal _can _be struck, I must return to Alagaesia."

"And before you do so, you will name me Lord of Surda, of the rebuilt House Langfeld. I will rule Surda in your stead, and it is I who will begin the preparations for the downfall of the dwarves."

Killian left Orrin's room before he could respond, the door crashing shut behind him. Orrin pressed his arms against the floor, raising himself against the smooth stone.

_This . . . this is not how I imagined it would be . . . _He thought to himself. Rays of sunlight peaked into his chambers, and he groaned.

_Morning. _

Orrin dressed for the day, the revelations Killian presented still looming in the back of his mind.


	44. Chapter 35

They rode out of Gil'ead in the night.

Not counting Eragon and Brom and the Elf, thirty men accompanied them, led by a harsh-faced captain named Jerwyn. They were given their own mounts, but at all times they were surrounded by armed men, men ready to slay them at a moment's notice. Saphira was hidden with a carriage, contained in a metal cage that rattled as they passed over muddy hills cooling in the night air. Eragon held on to his reigns tightly as they moved, silent like his company. The stars were low in the night sky, and it seemed as if the blackness itself was coming to swallow them up. Leafless trees shivered as the wind howled violently, beyond the procession of shining men, clad in armor, to the scattered forests that loomed on the horizon of their eyes.

The road they traveled was clear enough for the most part; aside from various areas that had sunken low into the earth due to rain and snow. Horses nickered as they shook their manes, their bodies giving off thrumming heat. Saphira saw through Eragon's eyes, enthralled by each sight. She grew smarter and smarter every day, and now it was to the point where she could speak as eloquently as Eragon himself.

Brom was slumped in his saddle. A bandage wrapped his stomach, and a heavy cloak hung about his shoulders. But his skin was pale, his eyes faded and grey. They had let him keep his sword, but even that seemed to lazily rest upon his slouched back. Eragon was worried for the man. He knew that Riders could withstand more than normal men . . . but Brom himself had told him that a Rider could die from the sword easily. Eragon did not know the extent of his injuries, but he did know that this trip was too soon for him.

The Elf did not offer any conversation. He had hoped that now that they rode side by side, she might speak to him, but Eragon realized on the outset of their journey that the wish was not a realistic one. She simply stared ahead, her black hair with strands of white billowing behind her head when the wind attacked. A bandage covered half of her face, but even then half-healed scars poked out from the edges, puffy and red. Her pointed ears jutted sharply from her square face, and Eragon for the first time noticed that her right ear was slightly cut and mangled. He found himself staring at it, until her cold eyes shot a glance at him.

She frowned.

Eragon quickly dropped his gaze, but his mind lingered on her various wounds. He still saw that red warrior, surrounded by Eragon's flames, and then dousing them with a grunt. He still saw the man as he dueled with Brom, nearly overtaking the man. Brom had attacked the creature in a moment of surprise, but even then the beast somehow vanished into the air. Eragon shuddered. It could be anywhere . . . looming at the boundaries of the forests, watching with eyes that lust for violence and delight in hatred. Only the most deranged of animals could to what he did to the Elf.

They had traveled some far ways away from Gil'ead before their party stopped. The escorts that surrounded them halted as Jerwyn rode around, shouting.

"We'll rest here, and continue on first light." He said, riding off to the ends of their column. Eragon did not know the men of House Pike, but whatever they could be called, no one could fault their organization. They quickly prepared camp, two men still mounted guarding Eragon and Brom and the Elf as the rest prepared the tents. A fire was started at the center of the erupted camp, and soon the light chatter of conversation settled over the Pikes. It was then one of the guards nodded at Eragon.

"Dismount and follow me." He said brusquely. Eragon complied, hopping from his steed. The Elf did as well, landing elegantly on the snow frosted ground. She was dressed in serving girl's clothing, a drab blouse with a mud colored skirt that went slightly farther than her knees. Somehow, the dressing was ill-fitting on her, making her look even more strange and alien than she already did. Brom came next, coughing and holding his stomach. He looked thinner, the hollowness of his face showing in the moonlit sky.

Their guard led them deep into the camp, silent chatter buzzing around their ears like taunting ghosts. They came to the flap of a large stain-marked dwelling. The guard moved the flap aside with his arm, allowing them entry. They all quickly gathered inside, greeted by three mats barren on the ground.

"We will move at first light." He informed. As he was about to turn, Eragon called after him.

"What about my dragon?" He asked. The guard halted his movement, and rotated.

"Jerwyn wants the dragon with him at all times until we reach Mhampir." He stated, and Eragon felt anger well up inside him. The guard seemed to smirk, and waited for Eragon to make a response.

_It's okay, Eragon. I'm fine. _

Saphira sent him an image of where she was: she looked at a large beige-colored dwelling, a small table before her. Jerwyn and his higher officers sat with him, eating and talking over a dirty map. Saphira herself had been given food and water, and Eragon smiled to himself at the thought of the Pike man treating her better than his fellow humans.

_Okay. I'm glad. Stay safe. _

_I'm in a cage. _

The guard frowned, and left the tent. Eragon turned around to see Brom already curled up on his mat, snoring loudly. That was good. He needed his rest. The Elf looked around the tent with her strangely shaped eyes, dark green in color. She finally sighed and sat on her mat. Eragon hesitated, and suddenly the Elf seemed to take up more than half of the tent. She looked up at him with an annoyed expression.

"What do you want?" She asked harshly. Her voice was melodic and light, but underneath it brimmed with strength and intellect.

"I- . . . what is your name?" He asked dumbly. She looked away, her frown growing deeper, until she exhaled and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples with her thin fingers.

"Arya." She said with finality. Eragon fidgeted, and then moved to the mat that was left for him. Brom slept between them, but even when he sat he could still see her. Eragon rubbed his fingers together. It was cold within the tent, and Eragon longed for the fire that roasted outside. He still wore the clothing that him and Brom had scavenged, and it smelled horribly- dried sweat, mud, and other things giving it a horrendous stench. He had mostly grown used to the smell, but he noticed Arya twitched her nose every time he moved.

"How did you send that vision to me?" He asked suddenly, and Arya turned her attention to him at once. Her eyes narrowed, her pretty mouth curling.

"I sent no vision." She said.

"But . . . that's how we found you. And then when I arrived you _smiled _at me, saying that I've come."

Arya gave him an incredulous look, half amused and half annoyed.

"I do not recall this vision. Go to bed."

Eragon swallowed his words, and listened to her command, curling up on the mat he was given. In short time, he was able to drift into a restless sleep, his body gaining little respite from the harshness of his conditions.

_Arya. _

_Her name is Arya. _


	45. Chapter 36

They had reached the edge of the desert. Murtagh watched as one of Orrin's men let the last of their birds free from the cage, a letter tied to its leg. Ahead of them the sand lessened, and on the horizon Murtagh saw a faint green curling with the landscape.

"This way." Neybark said as he and the rest of the dwarves shuffled through the sand on their mounts. Murtagh followed, Nasuada beside him and Nasuadon watching the rear with a portion of the men Orrin had sent with them. It was morning, and the air was deceptively cool: Murtagh had learned that here, the sun grows strength quickly, and what seemed fair could turn into a blazing inferno in not even a half of an hour's time.

"We are moving away from the mainland." Nasuada stated, and Neybark answered her without turning his head.

"Yes. We did not travel here by land the entire way. We will take a ship." Neybark informed.

"Why did you not tell us this from the start?" Murtagh questioned.

"Because I was told not to." The dwarf answered, and that was the end of their conversation. They passed dying desert dunes, the piles of sand gradually growing smaller and smaller as Murtagh noticed more animal and plant life. Soon, he saw entire desert gardens: patches of cacti and small groves of thorny bushes that were non-existent in the deep Surdan seas of sand. They came across numerous trade caravans. Some of the caravans eyed them warily, their guards presenting weapons. Others greeted them kindly, and some even stopped to barter. One caravan leader spoke to Neybark, and at the cost of a little of their supplies, the dwarf returned with carts of sweet smelling fruits, still cold and fresh inside stone iceboxes that retarded heat and kept the contents cool. He passed them out to their party, and even Murtagh smiled as the sweet juices of the strange-colored fruit swam down into his stomach.

They continued for what seemed like days.

The going was not badly, as the way was easy and the landscape slowly evolved. Murtagh saw small towns in the distance, and as they continued they passed by a large herd of desert-goats. They seemed to continue on forever, bleating dumbly and oblivious to their intrusion. Finally, four men came riding out to them, spears raised. Neybark quickly explained their destination, and at the cost of some of their fruit, they were allowed passage. Behind them, the herd faded into the horizon, ahead, more strange sights. They came across armed men standing on high ground, made of rock or even artificial watchtowers.

"What are they doing?" Nasuada had asked, alarmed.

"Watching. There are various large settlements ahead, and as long as we pose no threat, they will leave us be. Believe it or not, this is a very lucrative trade highway."

Murtagh could see it easily enough. Traders moved past them in droves, their horses and donkeys and camels sniffing and nickering at them as they rode past. The merchants here were noticeably less wary than their deep-desert counterparts, and most of them displayed their wares freely without obstruction. Murtagh saw carts of jewels, cages filled with exotic birds and pens that contained lizards as large as dogs that licked at the air with forked tongues. People where caged as well- from dark-skinned red haired beyonders to fair-haired and blue eyed mainlanders.

"Slavery?" Nasuadon smirked, having come up from the rear.

"I had thought that it was outlawed. At least in Alagaesia."

"Slavery is more profitable than gold. In Alagaesia, slavery _is _outlawed, but they bypass those rulings by working under a front of apprenticeship, promising parents that their children will learn how to be blacksmiths and other trades. Surda has outlawed the sale of slaves who were caught with no crime, so as the slave traders pass by those states, their slaves go from apprentices to war criminals. The slave routes change the story of their product according to the laws of the land. That, coupled with blackmail that causes the various governors and magistrates to turn a blind eye, slavery has more than flourished."

Murtagh felt a pang of sorrow for one passing pen that contained nearly twenty slaves. They had the look of the eastern regions of Alagaesia: Pale, green eyed and blonde haired. Their skin was peeling, and many of them looked as if they had been dried of tears. An ebony-skinned beyonder with flowing fire-touched hair and a cruel nose rode about them, splashing water onto the slaves periodically, and they would fall to the wood of their holding, slurping at the liquid like dogs.

"A cruel fate." Murtagh said as the slaves finally rolled past on the sandy road.

"We all are assigned our fates. It belongs to us to make do with what we are given." Neybark said with a whip of his reigns as his horse turned to sniff at another passing merchant.

"Even slaves? What could they do with their fate?" Nasuada challenged contemptuously.

Neybark thought for a moment, his dark eyes opaque to the inner workings of his mind.

"In most societies, it is possible for a slave to rise through his own birth and accomplish great things. If not that, they always have the ability to end their own lives. Those slaves within that cart: each one of them could end the torment they face if they had the courage."

Nasuada scowled.

"You're cruel." She said through clenched teeth. Neybark shrugged.

"My people are different from yours. What I have said, yes it may be cruel, but it is no less true. Tell me, if you were being burned eternally by fire, would you allow yourself to continue to be controlled by the pain? Or would you end your own life, gaining peace in sleep?"

Nasuada remained silent.

"You would end your life. The same rule applies to the slaves. If they allow themselves to be treated as cattle, then that is how they will live, until they breathe their last desperate gasp of air in some foreign land, away from their families and friends."

Murtagh secretly agreed with Neybark. He knew he wouldn't allow himself to be sold as a slave. He would have fought until he was killed. Nasuada would disapprove of him saying such, so in respect for her, he remained silent. He had learned a great deal of the woman from their nights together. In some ways, he was sad. He did not want this voyage to end. He had her now, but what happens when Orrin comes t them? Neybark had already said that his people had practically already agreed to the alliance, only thing that waited was the official signing of terms. He had said that Varden troops were even camped around the mountains, sent by nearby Houses to defend the dwarves should the Empire launch a surprise attack.

"It is a sound plan," Neybark had said earlier. "The alliance would unite the two Varden parties, and add the power of my people to the mix. With open war, we would be able to cut off Imperial trade lines and exhaust their own stores, while plundering the trade that would rightly go into their coffers. Our ships would blockade their ports, and it would only be a matter of time before the Empire fell."

_The Empire. _

Murtagh no longer knew who he belonged to. He had been away from home for so long, and now that he was returning, what was he? A member of the Varden? A laughable statement. He was the son of Morzan, the rider that had killed hundreds of thousands of people in the wars that still scarred the realm. Yet he lingered. He knew the end result, but he stayed regardless. Once they found out who he was, it would be too late to run.

They finally arrived at one of the cities that Neybark had spoken of. Sloping cathedral-sized buildings with cylinder towers and circular bases loomed high in the sky, with smaller sandstone dwellings surrounding them. Music drifted into their ears, and stationary merchants took the place of the traveling ones. More than one, they had been stopped by men who were selling everything from jewelry to swords. Neybark often waved them away, and more than once the only thing that would stop them was the unsheathing of a sword. One merchant had been so bold as to block their way with his large selling cart.

"One sale, and you can move past." He said, grinning as his thick accent slurped past his thin lips. The local city authorities had forced the man aside, and taken a portion of his wares as punishment.

"Where are we?" Zidda asked, his bright red hair and tanned brown skin unique among their party.

"One of the outskirt cities of Surda. Ghoremda. Our destination is the port-city of Kamal." Neybark answered.

In a few hours, they had moved through the city, the sounds dwindling behind them. They were again on the road, but this time it was _paved, _and free watering wells were found a few paces outside the gates. They were guarded vigilantly by armed men, wearing Orrin's colors. Murtagh surmised that Orrin's goal of re-conquering Surda and her adjoining cities was a success. Turbaned guards eyed them, hands on the hilts of their swords as water was given to their horses. Following this, they continued on their way.

Palm trees sprung from the ground, and traffic gradually grew less thick as they slowly moved through. Men patrolled the road, parties ranging from twos and threes, and larger groups of nearly fifteen mounted men. People walked on the road as well, some carrying young children and bags of foods that they no doubt planned to sell inside Ghoremda.

Time passed, and finally Murtagh could smell the slight scent of sea. Then, he heard the call of gulls, and the ringing of bells as the city of Kamal formed into view. A large statue stood before the gates, a golden giant, holding a spear and a raised shield. Murtagh eyed it curiously as they approached. Inside the giant, Murtagh noticed, men hid, peering out of the eyes with strung bows. As they passed underneath it, holes lined the giant's thighs, were more men peered at them, the sharp points of arrows aimed at them.

"The guard of Kamal." Neybark informed, and as they rode away from it, Zidda turned in his saddle, amazed.

The ports were obviously the main attraction of Kamal.

Larger than the actual living quarters of the city, wharfs boomed with bellows and chimes as massive ships lurked in the distance, floating in murky green water. More guards lined the ports, stone-faced with their spears pointed to the clear skies as seagulls screamed above them. Flags of a thousand nations waved at various docks, some of them occupied by ships. Men loaded and unloaded ships, passing cargo to and fro. Nasuada _tsked _as she saw men prod a group of tanned and dark-haired people from a sloop, their eyes slanted and their hair as dark as the night. They were sparsely clothed, hands chained and some of them bruised with blows.

"Slaves. By the look of them, they are from the Goromon islands, or perhaps the Jinjai landmass itself." Neybark said without question. Murtagh had no idea where those places were, but he nodded none the less. It took nearly thirty minutes before they reached their dock, the strange dwarven flag waving above them. The image on the flag was that of three stones, connected into a triangle by iron rods. Men who looked like Neybark leaned on ropes that tied the ship to port, some of them counting inventory as they saw Neybark approach.

"Wind!" One of them called, a burly man who looked as if he was as tall as Murtagh himself. He was clearly a dwarf, with six fingers and those strange black eyes, but it was strange seeing one so tall, especially with the stigma surrounding them for being short.

"Take their cargo. What do you want done with the horses?" the man asked. Neybark nodded as he dismounted.

"Keep our marked ones here. Return the ones belonging to Orrin."

The large dwarf frowned.

"These don't look like they'd survive another round trip, and we don't have the feed to spare to bring them back to health. While you were gone our wares sold poorly. Another Merchant family was here before us." He spat on the wood of the wharf as dwarves carried the various goods onto the thick dwarf ship.

Neybark sighed as Murtagh, Nasuadon, Nasuada, and Zidda came up behind him. The rest of their party relinquished their horses, awed by their surroundings.

"Which family? The Gohns or the Karvels?"

"Nyste."

Murtagh watched as Neybark clenched his large fists.

"This isn't their season." He glowered, and the large dwarf bobbed his head in agreement.

"I know. But they are far from home, and these tactics go unreported."

"I will make sure the Board of Fair Trade knows of this."

The large dwarf laughed heartily.

"The board has several Nyste on it. Good luck with that." He said. He looked past Neybark, eyeing Murtagh and those around him.

"This is the diplomatic party, I take it?"

Neybark confirmed this with a slight nod.

"My name is Oros Sail. My ship is one of the fastest on the seas. In no time, you will be within our heartlands."

Murtagh boarded the ship with the others, each step covering his heart with the stones that would bury him deep within his self-inflicted crypt.


	46. Chapter 37

Roran sat atop his horse, wearing the colors of House Pike proudly on his cloak. A heavy hammer hung from his belt, gifted by Newlyn Pike.

"You show some promise with the weapon. Might as well grant you with this," He had said. Roran asked where the hammer originated, but Newlyn wouldn't answer him. It had a coiled leather handle, with a stark white bone pommel as sharp as any sword. The flat face of the hammer was inscribed with the image of a howling horned beast, and on the opposite side another bleached bone point was found, runes etched thickly into the conical fixture. Roran's hair was combed but uncut, long but wavy. As it grew, it become darker, streaks of black running through his normally light brown locks. A beard hugged his sharp chin, and his eyes narrowed as he looked down on the small dwelling below him and the men who accompanied the newly-made captain.

"It looks quiet." Lorgainn said, riding up behind Roran. Newlyn had insisted that he go with Roran, speaking of the usefulness of a magic user.

"_You will be in the deepest parts of the North, where there are no kings or laws. Dark things still lurk in some places, untouched for thousands of years." _Newlyn had said ominously, and so it came to be that Lorgainn ran a hand through his white hair. His face was covered with intricate tattoos, and even without his bone armor he was still fearsome in appearance. Next to him, two of his animals sniffed the air, a fox and a badger.

"What do they smell?" Roran questioned, looking down at the creatures. Lorgainn's eyes turned red, his pupil's expanding.

"Death. Blood, but not newly spilt. These people were killed perhaps six days from this point in time."

Lorgainn's eyes returned to normal, and Roran turned his attention back on the small hobble of houses.

_Something is killing all of these people. _They had come across castles, lords and lordlings, forts and keeps. But the lands they owned . . . the people they swore to protect . . . the villages were all decimated by some strange evil. The lords generously accepted the terms of House Pike: To recognize House Pike as their Great Lord, and join them in the war against the Empire. But when asked of the village massacres, they had no answer. They had all been huddled in their fortified homes, while the smell of death and screams of children and women carried on the cold air of the night, unheeded.

"It is much worse than we had previously thought." Roran said, his jaw clenched. Katrina and the others . . . they were safe, but for how long? Whatever was killing these people was gaining strength in the uncharted woods and forests, attacking from the fringes of the North. Roran turned to look behind him. His men waited, all of them ahorse. Nearly one hundred and fifty of them, all well-armed and trained. Archers, swordsmen, and Roran didn't even count the bloodmages. Lorgainn rode with him, but the rest of his magicians held back, watching their rear. Roran sagged his shoulders and sighed. He was tired. He just wanted to be with Katrina. She had improved greatly, healthy color returning to her as her body filled out again, the normal vivaciousness back in her attitude. But still, Roran could tell that sadness lingered.

_Our lives will never be the same. _

"Let's go." Roran said, whipping his reigns forward, his horse plodding down the craggy hill.

It was misty in the morning, and so far, early on in winter, they had been lucky. Only wet rain and a few flurries of snow had afflicted them, and most days warmed relatively quickly. While it was still cold, they faced muddy roads and slush-covered grass, which Roran preferred over feet upon feet of snow. The sound of movement was heard behind him as his force traveled into the destroyed village. As he rode closer, the smell the animals had picked up on met his nose. It was a cruel thing, _damp _and heavy, as if it was not a smell at all, but something tangible, something that had to be fought off. The village was found in a clearing, many of the trees that surrounded the area had been cut back, and as Roran rode forward, he saw stumps of felled oak between pockets of dirtied snow. Above, the sky was a gray soup of haze, the sun shining weakly behind a film of grim color. The village itself was even more unremarkable from a close distance as it was from afar.

Poorly built buildings, constructed of wood and stone, formed a circle around what Roran assumed was some sort of communal firepit. Stakes from the pit rose high over the town, charred and weathered but still standing. The hooves of his steed crunched on half-burnt slabs of timber as he entered the town. The rest of his men set up perimeter around it, and Lorgainn rode up beside him once space allowed.

Bodies littered the area. Horribly mutilated, some with skin half-hanging from bloodied faces. Homes were broken into and ravaged, with the families who once lived in them cut down before them. Suddenly, Lorgainn vaulted from his horse. Roran jumped in surprise, watching as Lorgainn walked briskly over to a body lying face first in wet ground. There was a red mark on the back of the corpse, swirling and savage. It appeared to be a bird, but Roran couldn't tell exactly. Whatever it was, it filled him with a sense of unease, of some evil that desired nothing but the death of all living things.

He shivered.

"What is it?" He called from his horse. Lorgainn flipped over the body, and stepped back as he was greeted with the front side of the corpse, which was cut and carved in the same style as the marking on the corpse's back. Lorgainn looked up at Roran, locking eyes with him.

"It is plain to see that Urgals have been attacking these villages. But . . . this . . ." He trailed off.

Roran bore into Lorgainn expectantly.

"Well?"

"I know this seal. It is a sacrificial summoning. It is similar to the styles of Bloodmagic . . . but this . . . _it is wrong. Something about this . . . _" Roran felt fear creep into his mind. Lorgainn stared at the body for a moment longer, and then climbed back up his mount, his animals sniffing at the body curiously.

"We should continue to the next Lord." He advised. Roran tensed. Lorgainn was always cool and calm, but something about the body unnerved him.

"There is something dark at work here." Roran muttered, his eyes scanning the village, bodies strewn about like garbage. Not even wild dogs touched these fallen men.

It was then that a guttural bellow came howling into the still air. Roran looked at Lorgainn, and his mouth turned downwards.

"Urgals." He said, and Roran nodded wordlessly, wheeling his horse around as he left the village, Lorgainn behind him. All around, his men rode to him, and one man with a weathered face and a red scarf wrapped around the bottom half of his face presented himself.

"They're pouring out of the wood." He said breathlessly. Roran unclipped the heavy hammer from his belt. Directing his horse with one hand on the reigns, he looked ahead, past the village and into the dark expanse of the woods beyond. Sure enough, he saw the movement of the massive gray beasts as they lurked into view, hunched and hulking. Horns curved from their heads, some dangling with rope and beads that chittered as their heads swayed heavily. They held axes of stone, large spears and massive iron greatswords. Unarmored, their thick hides gave adequate protection, some of them even naked, their bare bodies filling Roran with disgust.

"At least seventy." Lorgainn said. His animals snarled, bearing teeth as they hid between the muscled legs of Lorgainn's horse. The two groups stared at each other. The urgals formed before the town in a semi-organized line. Roran's forces met them, his line straight and centered. The horses watched the urgals cautiously, some of them nickering nervously. Then the urgals charged.

"ARCHERS!" Roran bellowed, and soon the whisper of arrows was heard as they were loosed into the urgal force. The horsearchers climbed up on the hill that backed them, firing as they did so, their saddles worn so that they could string a bow with both hands while riding. The urgals did not falter in their charge even as their countrymen fell. Roran reared his horse.

"Brace yourselves!" He warned, his warhammer swinging in his hand. Lorgainn's eyes went red.

"I have commanded my bloodmages to attack from the rear once the urgals are committed in battle to us."

Roran frowned, but had no time to protest as the urgal line crashed into theirs. Momentum had been on the urgal's side, and the screams of man and horse melded as the urgals cut down Roran's men. He roared as an Urgal came bounding up on him, unarmed save for two massive fists. Roran struck at the Urgal with the sharp end of his hammer, blinding it as the sharp point sunk into the beast's brain. It shuddered and fell as Roran pulled his weapon free, taking his shield from his back and entering deeper into the fray, Lorgainn riding beside him.

Blood snaked from the corpse of a dead soldier as it impaled an urgal at a dozen different entry points, the urgal screaming horrifically as Lorgainn weaved one hand in the air, moving his lips in silence. Roran moved ahead, watching as his men killed and were killed. Two urgals pulled a horse down to the ground, and then gutted the rider with their massive horns. Roran killed one as it lifted its head, smashing the creature's skull in with savage grace. As he rode past, the surviving urgal screamed as it was killed, and upon turning Roran saw that an arrow jutted from the urgal's forehead. They pressed on the attack, and gradually gained the upper hand, ground soaked with newly spilt blood. Then abruptly, the urgals turned and began to flee.

Roran frowned.

_Urgals don't run. They fight until they or their enemy is dead, hacked to pieces. _

The urgals easily moved ahead of the tired horses, propelled on thick legs. Roran narrowed his eyes as they scurried into the wood.

"After them!" He screamed as he kicked his horse forward.

_I will get to the bottom of this. _


	47. Chapter 38

(A/N: Sorry about the delay. I had written this chapter previously, but I felt that it wasn't good enough, so I was forced to rewrite it. I also apologize for the previous chapter, I feel like it wasn't as good as it could have been. Anyway, here is the next part of Roran's journey . . . :D)

The urgals led Roran to a stone castle. Ageless and hidden within the forest, green moss snaked over the gray walls like veins visible under the surface of a man's skin. Ruined turrets stood vigil over the bleak land, while skeletons hung from poles scattered about the outside of the structure, swaying gently in the wind. Roran felt dread rise up in his throat, a thick bile that threatened to send him fleeing back to where he came.

"This is an evil place." Lorgainne spoke, his words hushed as his horse softly stepped close. Roran looked at the man, his eyes red as the badger and fox moved ahead, snouts in the air. Behind Lorgainne, the rest of Roran's forces slowly crept through the forest. Ahead, the urgals vanished within the castle, entering through broken ramparts and climbing up cobbled walls. Roran exhaled, his breath turning into white mist as it escaped his mouth. It was colder here, a fowl sensation, numbness taking root despite Roran's armor and furs.

"We have to investigate." Roran leveled his eyes on the castle. He felt that whatever was in there waited for them, watching and wondering. He curled his hands tighter around the reigns of his horse.

"What do you smell?" He asked, and Lorgainne looked at him with his wide eyes, now red.

"Dark spells. A cadet branch of Dark Magic, but no less foul. This place burns with it. Whatever beings await us, they have been trying to unlock the secrets of the old magic, before our world began." Lorgainne shifted in his saddle, frowning.

"What do you mean?" Roran tried to image whatever it was inside the castle: He pictured a withered old man, a dark cowl hanging low over the front of his forehead.

"Golhlobor. The first being to use magic for evil. In those days, there were no branches of magic, no words or incantations. It just was _there, _for all to use and manipulate. Every living creature had some connection to magic, and it was its power that formed all we see around us. Golhlobor . . . if the ancient texts prove true, was _bored _of peace. He waged war on all life, using the magic of the world to command legions of undead warriors. They were called _Ra'zac. _It was only the combined power of the Eldeena and the Elves, their offspring, that he was contained."

Roran knew what elves were, well enough. But these Eldeena were new to him.

"Who were the Eldeena?" He questioned.

"The First Dragons. Before Golhlobor, dragons had the ability to turn into the likeness of whatever they wished. In fact, it isn't correct to call them _dragons, _though that was usually their preferred form when they took to the skies. It was from them that Elves came forth, created by the mating of an Eldeena and a dwarf. From there, the Elf mated with a dwarf as well, bearing four sons that would eventually grow into the several races of man."

Roran was amazed. Everything was so much larger than he, so vast, so mysterious. Back when he was in Carvahall, life was simple. Nothing truly mattered, save for the harvest and his patrol duties. Now . . .

"How did the Eldeena have such power?"

"It was in their nature. They possessed strange hearts- Called _Eldunari. _Spheres of creation. After an Eldeena died, their Eldunari lived on. But the Eldunari and the lives of several million Elves were all used to seal Golhlobor, who was also an Eldeena, in his ethereal prison. From that point, the Eldeena were locked into whatever forms they had covered themselves in. Some were Dragons, others were giant horses or lions. Some had been monstrous sea creatures. They were all of these things, monsters, except for the power of speech and magic that separated them from common beasts. In time, the world forgot about the Eldeena and Golhlobor, and the Eldeena's descendants fled from the eye of the world, breeding among their kind. Only the dragons lingered, waging war until the First Rider brought peace to the land."

"How do you know all of this?" Roran asked.

"The Ghost Men inscribed everything on stone and bone. What was written had been passed down orally for thousands of years, so I cannot tell you truly if what I say is the truth. But it is the history of this earth, as I know it." Lorgainne pressured his steed onwards.

"I have summoned my mages. Your men should stay in the wood and set up perimeter. We will enter ourselves." Lorgainne said, and to Roran's ears, it sounded dangerously like an order.

"But the urgals-"

"They were killed as we were speaking. I smell their blood."

Roran's eyes widened.

"_Killed?" _

"Sacrificed. What awaits us fears our power enough to attempt to bolster their own. Whatever magic is at work here, it needs to end. This area is a blight upon the land, and it is from here that all of those innocents died. This is the source of the destruction."

Roran remembered the bodies of women and children. He remembered the towns they had rode past, burned to the ground, and what still stood was black and charred, hauntingly thin and calm as the wind blew ash around their boots. Roran remembered the Lords they had come in contact with, eyes filled with fear, hiding from some unspeakable terror within their castles. He then remembered Carvahall- his ruined home. A small pocket of civilization, destroyed searching for-

Suddenly, Roran's mind _clicked. _

_The Egg. Eragon's dragon. _

Roran felt rage swell up inside of his head, pounding against his walls of reason.

_Garrow. _

Eragon is why their town burned. Why Katrina was forced to march until she was half dead. Why he was fighting, why he was here right now, why he was about to face some evil entity-

_It is all Eragon's fault. _

"Roran? Are you ready?"

Roran nodded, his teeth clenched. Lorgainne's animals came back to him, looking up expectantly as the white-haired man sat atop his horse. Behind them, a rustle and crumble of dead wood was heard as Lorgainne's mages came from the half-frozen forest.

"We will continue on foot." Lorgainne stated, dismounting. Roran jumped from his horse, holding the hilt of his hammer tightly, his face red.

_You killed Garrow, Eragon. You killed everyone. _

"Set up watch around the castle. I will enter it alone, along with Lorgainne's forces." Roran spoke to his second in command, and the horseman nodded, telling Roran's mounted troops his orders. Roran turned back to Lorgainne, who was surrounded by darkly-robed bloodmages, their animals sniffing. Foxes, dogs, and even bears made up the menagerie, and Roran saw a bloodmage with a hawk resting on his shoulder while a crow sat atop the wizard's hood. Roran moved forward, the heaviness of his boots dragging into the soft ground.

"Roran, you have no magic ability, so your advantage will be quickness. Keep your mind occupied, and whatever seems unreal, is. Do not allow yourself to be caught in an illusion. You may see people you care about, but you need to ignore them, their voices and calls. They are not there." Lorgainne's warning made Roran shiver.

"To think a magic-user could have so much power . . ."

"No. It is not the magic-user who would do this to you. It is this area itself. It is basked in Dark Spellcraft, causing our bodies to react differently. I have experienced what you will soon feel, because my body is sensitive to it. Once you get closer, you will understand. Just remember my words."

Roran remembered as he stepped through the tall ramparts, taking the same route the urgals had before. His hammer drawn, he looked about himself, the mages coming behind him silently. The insides of the castle were tattered and ruined, skeletons impaled on stakes stared at Roran as he peered about. The ground was littered with bones and ash, and his skin felt as if someone was softly caressing it, a slight tingle that unnerved him. He stopped, his vision growing hazy as he saw a woman ahead of him, laughing quietly to herself. She looked up at him, her eyes haggard and her face gaunt. Her hands were bloody, and as she laughed, flesh came falling from her mouth. Roran looked at the woman's fingers, then realized she had been _eating them. _He saw her face again, this time inches away from his.

"_Katrina?" _Roran gasped. The wraith howled, and Roran felt himself fall to the ground as phantom hands grasped his neck. He looked up and saw Katrina, laughing as black liquid dripped from her eyes, tears made of muck and acid. His eyesight faded, grew tighter . . .

"Roran!" Lorgainne shook him, and the wraith hissed, vanishing in the air. He helped Roran to his feet, Roran gasping heavily.

"I thought you said it wasn't real. I felt it. I felt hands around my neck." He said softly.

"If you allow yourself to fall prey to the magic, it will become real to your body. Know it for what it is- a falsehood, and it cannot hurt you. Let's go."

The wraith returned after they made their way deeper into the castle. It danced in Roran's view, again acting as Katrina, stabbing herself with a knife, giggling as she slid the razor across her wrists. Roran's stomach turned, but he marched onwards, ignoring the demonic show. They continued into the castle's inner workings, having crossed the barren courtyard. Roran shook his head as two mages pried open the old doors, which opened with a heavy yowl. They were greeted with a dark hallway, statues of long-forgotten heroes marching down into a pit of blackness. Lorgainne lowered his head.

"Just ahead. What we seek is just ahead." His eyes glowed a deep red, and Roran had to remind himself that Lorgainne was not a wraith. As they walked ahead, whispers bounced around them, a strange and fowl tongue.

"Do not listen." Lorgainne muttered as Roran tried to block out the sound. The animals seemed unaffected as they patted on the stone floor, claws clicking on the surface. They were thirty one in total- thirty one against some dark being. They were greeted by an arched doorway, which in turn led to a large room, circular in appearance. In the center of the room, a fire burned. But the flames were _black. _Kneeling before the flame was an urgal, beaten nearly half to death. The dark flames licked greedily at the beast, and a robed figure stood behind it, knife pressing into the creature's throat. Roran saw bodies of dead urgals strewn about the room, necks open.

The knife flashed across the throat of the urgal, and it fell into the fire. The flames exploded in mirth, and as they shifted, the robed figure _vanished. _Lorgainne was beside Roran in a matter of seconds.

"Gaisa-bouron!" He screamed, and a pulse of white energy erupted around them. The robed figure went flying back, hitting a wall as an open window shined down on the being's face as its hood fell backwards. If it was a man, it was the cruelest man Roran had ever seen. It had no ears, no nose, no lips. Tattoos were _carved _into its skin, horrible and dark. Blood seeped from the carvings, bleaching the beings face with red streaks as the blood overflowed in the fleshly trenches of the being's appearance. It snarled and pounced, hurtling forward. Lorgainne's mages sprung into action, speaking in tandem as they raised their hands. The being snarled as it was lifted into the air, the blood of it snaking from the freshly made wounds, self-inflicted.

_Bloodmages. _Roran allowed himself a smile. But then he heard Katrina giggle. He looked towards the sound, but then was pushed backwards as he was thrown to the ground. In the air, the enemy magician weaved tendrils of his own blood around his body, impaling Lorgainne's men as they looked up at the creature, bewildered. Animal and man died the same, punctured in the heart by hardened spears of black blood. The tendrils snaked around men and threw them into the ebony blaze, which grew stronger and larger with each toss.

Roran roared and held his hammer tightly as tendrils came flying at him. He struck them away, but they recoiled and attacked back, cutting his arm and then both of his legs. He fell to the ground, slick with blood as he watched the carnage unfold around him. Their force was decimated. Mages tried to no avail stave off the black snakes, but they kept on coming, and each newly made corpse exploded in a splash of liquid the color of night, which stabbed and choked and grabbed. Roran rose to his feet, knocking away tendrils as they resumed their assault. Lorgainne and three of his men still stood, huddled in a circle as they weaved a bloody wall around them. Roran looked on desperately, wishing he was closer as men who were outside of Lorgainne's defense were eviscerated. The enemy mage slowly floated to the ground, focusing all of its power on Lorgainne and his surviving men. Roran ignored the pain in his legs as he charged, hammer held high. He was silent, quick, fast . . . and the mage turned and looked at him, violent glee in its eyes as a spear of blood came crashing into Roran. It cut through metal and leather, cloth and skin. It exited out of his back, and flung him around the room, his teeth chattering together as the tendril snaked deeper into his flesh. Finally the tentacle threw him into the blackness of the fire, the flames opening like the mouth of a black demon as his flesh began to burn.

Roran screamed, but by then he realized his lungs were now nothing but ash, sacrificed to the power of a cruel god.


	48. Chapter 39

MHAMPIR PIKE'S EYES narrowed as they regarded Eragon, who knelt before him. Across Mampir's thin legs, a sword rested, unsheathed, the pale blade absorbing what little light there was in the throne room. Mhampir himself looked young, with long ebony hair and dark green eyes that reminded Eragon of the congealed swamps that he and Brom had passed in their first days journeying together. To his left and right, powerful looking statutes appraised him, chins held high as the men stood vigil, frozen in stone. A fire crackled- but was not privy to Eragon's eyes. Beside him, Brom and Arya also knelt, but before them all was Saphira.

She was still caged, but she shined brilliantly in the dusky room. She unflustered her wings, pushing them against the iron bars of her prison. Mhampir's eyes widened every time she moved, but other than that, it was silent. Newlyn Pike stood by Brom, his hands curled around Brom's dirty collar. Two men with skull-faces flanked Mhampir, holding twisted-looking greatswords. A wizard circled Saphira's cage like a predatory animal, his staff clicking against the stone flooring. His face was painted so heavily that not an inch of his skin was shown. White, black, and red tattoos swirled and jabbed and bisected the man's countenance, while white hair fell from his head and down to his waist.

"Interesting . . . very interesting." Mhampir said at last, leaning forward. He lifted his sword from his lap, allowing it to beam as it hung in the air, and then twisted it over, resting on the hilt while the point jabbed ineffectively at the stone ground.

"What should be done with them, My Lord?" Newlyn asked. The wizard left Saphira's cage, and found himself behind the throne of Mhampir. He whispered into the young Lord's ear, and Mhampir nodded, smiling.

"You said you found them in Gil'ead?" He asked, speaking louder. Newlyn nodded.

"Yes. We had thought them Galbatorix's .. . but the boy said his home had been destroyed by the Empire, and that he was a Rider. This one though . . ." Newlyn lifted Brom and threw him to the ground. Brom landed heavily, and as he picked himself up, Newlyn pressed his boot against Brom's back. Eragon had to suppress the urge to twist around and punch the man, his eyes downcast as he ignored the sound of Brom's fingers scratching at the stone cobbled floor.

"He killed two of mine." Newlyn said. Mhampir looked past Eragon and at Brom, then refocused his eyes on the younger lad.

"You said this one was a Rider as well." He said easily. Eragon nodded, wincing as Brom cried out in pain. Mhampir looked up with an annoyed expression.

"Newlyn, enough. If what this boy says is true, then that man and this whelp are more valuable than you, or any of your household." Mhampir looked at Eragon with those swampy green eyes, and bowed his head.

"Continue."

"He's a Rider. He fought in the war, and . . . . He was teaching me. Teaching me how to fight and use magic."

"Is that so?" Mhampir said slyly.

"Show me what you can do." He said, settling in his chair. Eragon looked around himself anxiously, patting himself down. Finally, he ended up removing his moldy boot, and produced a small pebble as Mhampir looked on, holding his nose polity. Eragon braced himself, the pebble on the flat of his palm. He closed his eyes, focused his energy, and emptied his mind.

"Stenr Risa".

The pebble floated above Eragon's hand, rising higher and higher. Eragon then directed the pebble around the room, Mhampir following it critically with his cold gaze. Finally, Eragon returned the small rock to his hand, closing his fingers around the cool stone. Mhampir smiled, and then sat up in his chair, gripping the hilt of his sword with two hands as he did so.

"Magic is the tool of men, boy." Mhampir's eyes suddenly turned _red_ as a black mountain lion roared from behind his large throne, jumping over the high seat with ease. Eragon fell backwards on himself as the massive cat regarded him with maroon pupils, licking its chops while a bushy tail swayed behind it. Eragon could feel the breath of the lion as it blew on him, parting his long hair with each heavy exhalation.

"This is magic. What you showed me was nothing but a cheap parlor trick. Do not presume to think our skills are in the same realm. What you displayed was _not _magic."

The lion drew away from Eragon, slinking back behind the throne, and into the darkness beyond. Eragon's heart beat fast within his chest, thumping heavily as his lungs drew in and expanded.

"That is all that he was able to teach you?" Mhampir asked incredulously.

"He taught me some basic skills of swordplay." Eragon answered, shamed. Mhampir's eyes locked on Brom, who had rose from the ground.

"You say you want to reach the Varden." Mhampir stated plainly. Brom simply nodded his head. Mhampir's eyes then snapped towards Arya, who had been silent the entire time.

"And what of you, Elf? What do you want?"

"I need to reach the Varden as well. I am princess of the Elves, and I will represent my House and people. Many Elves have already fled to-"

Mhampir waved his hand. "Yes, but no official alliance has been struck with them, I know. I have heard word that the Dwarves may join their cause with the Varden . . . "

Arya's eyes widened in surprise.

"Yes, it is true. I believe so, at least. A shame when dwarves react faster to justice than Elves." Mhampir said with a smile. Arya did not answer him, but Eragon could hear the sound of her teeth grinding together in anger.

"Newlyn, you wish to see them punished, don't you."

"If it pleases you, my lord."

"It does not." Mhampir said coldly, rising from his throne.

"My wizard Eloeyr says that there is another Rider, hidden among the lands of the High Elves. Is this true, Valbhorethlian?" He sneered. Arya's face dropped in shock.

"How . . . how did you . . ." She stammered.

"My wizard recognized you. You possess the traits of House Valbhorethlian, the dark hair with the streaks of white, the angular face . . . the strange pupils. Once you declared yourself a princess, I knew then for sure. What do you call royal families in your language?" Mhampir asked.

"Delan." She answered.

"And what do you call Lords?"

"Aurosa."

Mhampir grinned, one of his hands leaving the hilt of his sword and finding itself near the corner of his mouth. "So I would be Aurosa of Delan Pike, is that correct?"

"More or less." Arya said simply.

"Then I tell you this, Arya of House Valbhorethlian, you will go to the Varden. But you will have these two accompany you, and you will have your people train Eragon in the arts of becoming a true Rider. Once he is strong enough, he will be a great asset to House Pike's cause."

"The _Varden's_ cause." Eragon corrected boldly. Mhampir bore a amused look on his face.

"Of course, boy. Newlyn, I will not punish these people, or keep them here longer than necessary. Aerion will escort them to the Varden, and you will return to Gil'ead, your new seat. As a cadet branch of House Pike, you will have much riding on your shoulders."

Newlyn frowned.

"But the families of the men killed . . ."

"So what? It is war. People die. Now go. You have done well, but your stubbornness is ruining my good will towards you."

Newlyn left the hall with the click of heavy heels leaving the room.

"Aerion is a good man, and he knows the way to where the Varden are massed. There is another group, in the far depths of Surda, where our future King Orrin waits. As we speak, diplomats leave for the Dwarf lands, to broker an alliance. It is said that the agreement has already been unofficially accepted, all that remains is the signing of paper."

"Why are you telling us this?" Arya suddenly voiced. Mhampir's eyes thinned.

"Because war is coming. True war, not the skirmishes that have plagued the North. This boy needs to be ready to fight." Mhampir said, pointing at Eragon.

"The Forsworn will be able to end this war before it begins."

"I can still train him." Brom spoke, his voice gravelly.

"The boy said you fought in the war. I can only assume your dragon has perished. You are no true Rider, no longer. The boy needs a real teacher, which he will find once he is introduced to the Elves. Tell me, Valbhorethlian, what is the name of our surviving master?"

"Oromis. His name is Oromis." She choked stiffly.

"You will leave on the morrow." Mhampir rose from his throne, handing his sword to a squire that came scrambling up to him.

"What is your name, boy, your true name?" Mhampir eyed Eragon with slight disgust.

"Eragon, m'lord."

Mhampir rolled his eyes, frowning. "Your surname. The name you inherited from your father.

"I- . . . I don't know."

"You don't know the name of your father?" Mhampir asked.

"I was adopted."

"If you're going to be a Rider, you need a name. Eragon . . . a newly made rider . . . something to inspire and something to cause men to quake in fear . . . "

Mhampir smiled.

"From this day forth, your name is Eragon _Drakefyre."_


	49. Chapter 40

THIS IS A CHAPTER. Just a little bit of a forward right now. (In hindsight, I could've just said A/N at the beginning . . . ) anyway just wanted to say we're at 13.5k views right now, and we're GONNA BE HITTIN' 14k soon! This is so awesome. The fact that this fanfic is so young yet has so many views is really great, thanks guys. Now onto the story . . . Just wanted to answer some questions.

It was said Golhlobor was an elf before, but now he's an Eldeena? Is that a mistake?

A: No, it isn't. It was an intentional discrepancy. Golhlobor is this mystical evil figure in the minds of the Alagaesia, some long-forgotten evil. So when his worshippers start popping up again, they aren't sure exactly WHAT he is/was. The difference is meant to challenge you readers to shift fact from fiction.

Did you actually create a language for the elves and dwarves?

A: LOL no. it is semi-random gibberish. Save for some words that I DID define, it is pretty much meaningless. I mean, what I do is I usually pick a real-world source language in google translate. Then I write what I want a character to say, and then I see how it would look like in a real-world foreign language. From there I change some letters and yada yada yadadada and boom, a believable fantasy tongue is achieved!

Where's the map?

A: Ahahaha it is being worked on, it's just I KINDA lost interest in it. Besides, I don't even know where I would post it.

Did you copy the concept of Houses from GoT?

A: NO! Game of Thrones copied the real-world! In every society there are royal families, and they are known as Houses. England, for example, had hundreds of "Houses" and some of these still are around today.

The differences between the Elves are cool, but you copied them from Skyrim.

A: Nope. Those differences between Elves have existed in Germanic mythology for a LONG time.

Why are dwarves not short?  
A: Because, quite simply, I'm tired of the Tolkien-esque dwarf who is a midget and fights with an axe and mines all day. These dwarves are different; with a unique history and pretty much own everything. They're the adventurers of this story.

You introduce a lot of OC. Are we ever going to see any of them again?

A: LOL I admit that I sometimes will make a character to move the plot, or if I just need random "time to kill" fodder. But there are SOME who will resurface. (You haven't seen the last of Herzig . . .)

ANYWAY HERE'S THE NEW CHAPTER

The heat had faded away. There was no direction, no sight, no sound. Roran felt nothing but his own awareness, floating in some bleached void. He felt his thoughts rather than hearing them in his head, a sort of phantom touch that perfectly encapsulated this body-less thoughts. He did not know how long he sat in the nothingness. His concept of time was nothing but a faded memory, something that he realized existed long ago, but had forgotten. Roran could not say how long it was before the voice had spoken to him: It could have been seconds, years, centuries. He did not know. He just knew that the voice had revealed itself to him, within Roran's mind.

"_The secondson of the Seer." _

"Who are you?" Roran said, gasping in shock as he realized he was using his mouth, his lungs filling with air.

_I should be dead. I was burned alive. _The black flames, curling and licking around his body had turned his skin to ash in a matter of seconds. He remembered then, the mage, Lorgainne and his men.

_Katrina. _

There was a woman in his field of vision as his eyes truly opened, and he was treated to a silver room, flat and plain. In exchange for walls, starry skies were in place of them, the celestial bodies shining brightly as the woman walked closer to Roran. She looked strange: Brilliant like the sun, with a slim figure and robes that hung beautifully off of her slight body.

"What is your name, Seerson?" The woman asked as she laid her slim finger on Roran's chest.

"Roran . . ." He answered, attempting to move away. His body did not listen to his commands, and the woman smiled beautifully at him.

"Roran. A powerful name, but not the one that was given to you at birth."

"What do you mean? Do you know my father? I . . . I was adopted. My adoptive father Garrow found me, but he knew nothing of my birth."

"Not personally, but I do know of him." The woman answered as she turned away from him. The stars flanked her on both sides, curving around her body as Roran stared, enraptured.

"Who was he?" Roran begged, tears welling in his eyes.

"I need to know. If this is truly death, I need to know his name."

"You will know, but the answer cannot be from me. Your death is not today, however." The woman turned, her lips curled in a grin.

"Your life, your bloodline still has use. The Triumvirate Kings will spring from your loins, and that of your brothers."

Roran looked at the woman with a humored smirk. "Brothers? I have one brother." He corrected. The woman's eyes narrowed, and she raised her chin as she spoke.

"You have another. One you will meet very soon. But do you know why you are here, Roran? Why you are not dead?" She asked of him.

Roran frowned, looking down at his hands.

"No . . . there's so much I don't understand."

"As I have said earlier, you need to remain alive. At least until you produce a child." The woman came closer to Roran again, placing her palm on his chest. His breast slowly began to burn, and Roran cried, recoiling from the woman. He fell to the smooth floor, falling over and grabbing himself as he felt the flame work through his body.

"You will return to the world. But remember what I have said. The Triumvirate Kings are the only ones who will stop the tide of darkness."

_Golhlobor. _

Roran suddenly found himself back in the circular room, clothed in his tattered armor and leathers. He was inside the fire, but the flames did him no harm. As he walked, they parted away, shying away from his body. The mage was laughing hysterically as he pounded away at Lorgainne's blood shield. Black tendrils swarmed around him, and there was only four mages, counting Lorgainne, that had survived. Roran walked out of the firepit, leaning over to pick up a sword that had fallen just out of reach of the flames.

"You." Roran said, pointing the blade at the mage. The mage turned, mouth grinning in violent glee, until its eyes widened in surprise. The emotion vanished underneath a snarl, and black tendrils of blood came hurtling at Roran . . . only to splash against the ground a few feet away from his body.

The mage growled and swung more tendrils, but like the first, they lost form and fell against the stone floor, splashing across the ground with a light hiss, similar to rain.

Roran charged. The mage cried and sent more blood spears, but they all failed to touch Roran. He plunged the sword into the mage's body, driving it deeper and deeper until the point was seen on the other side of the mage's body. The mage shuddered, until it let out one last gasp and died. Roran dropped the hilt, and the body fell to the floor, taking the sword with it.

"Roran . . ." Lorgainne rasped as his blood shield splattered to the ground. His animals hid behind him as he walked towards Roran, his bloodmages shuffling weakly behind him.

"Your face . . ." He stammered, and Roran simply looked at the mage, not understanding.

_Why didn't the tendrils hurt me?  
_

Roran found a large block of glass on the ground, stained with blood. He smeared the watery blemish from the stone-like window fragment, and looked at his appearance.

Roran dropped the glass, and it shattered into more pieces on the bloodied ground. Even though he no longer saw his own face, the image was burned into his mind.

Starting from his forehead, a large tattoo snaked down, across his right cheek and further down his neck. It was black and sprawling, with jagged edges and harsh grace.

"What does it mean?" Roran asked. Lorgainne's eyes widened.

"I don't know. Maybe if I could search your mind?" Lorgainne held out his hand. Roran nodded, and the bloodmage placed his palm on Roran's forehead. Roran felt as Lorgainne's magic tentatively touched at Roran's memories- And suddenly Lorgainne shouted as he was thrown across the room by invisible hands. The surviving bloodmages instantly took up positions of defense, but stood bewildered as their control of blood resulted in little more than bubbling pools.

Lorgainne slid down the wall, and slowly rose, his bones cracking audibly.

"Magic . . . it has no effect on you. What happened to you, Roran? _Who are you?" _

The name came to Roran without him knowing. It entered his mind, and he had no control over himself then, unable to stop or alter the words that left his lips.

"I am Roran _Magebane."_


	50. Chapter 41

Dylon Blood danced the stone dagger between his slim fingers, all six of his digits swirling the fine weapon so fast that it was nothing but a silver blur. In the dim light of the bar, Dylon eyed Obron Nyste across the table. An older _Eharib, _he had dirty blonde hair and a thick black beard that was coiled into several thick locks, jewels hanging from each one. There was a low hum of conversation as Obron anxiously wrung his hands, looking at Dylon with shifty blue eyes.

"Can it be done?" He asked softly. There was a blast of laughter, causing Obron to jolt in his seat. Dylon smiled wanly and allowed his yellow eyes to follow the source of the noise: Two _Dwarib_ making sultry gestures to a curved dwarven barmaid. Dylon returned his attention to Obron, who was now sweating profusely.

"It can. What really matters, my friend," Dylon leaned forward, slamming his knife onto the wooden table. It stuck with a loud _chunk, _and the surrounding chatter lessened as dwarves shifted uncomfortably, reaching for concealed weapons. Dylon stared at Obron until the talking picked up again, and gave Obron a handsome grin.

"Is the money." He finished, leaning backward on his chair, allowing his long brown hair to fall past his ears and down the sides of his neck.

"It can be supplied. Are you sure you and your men will be able to-" Obron bent his head lower, placing his massive hands on the cold table.

"Are you sure they will be able to kill the _Gun-nam Gun-La?" _

"My fair Obron," Dylon started, his voice soothing.

"Regicide is our specialty."

Obron moved, sending out a pallid stench that grew from his own nervousness. Dylon scrunched his nose, picking up his glass of heated ale to cover the stench.

"It needs to be done before the treaty is signed. The human delegation will be arriving soon."

Dylon put down his cup with softly, wiping his mouth as the alcohol warmed his stomach.

"It will be done, Obron. Oidan will die, that I can promise you, _yangu baradu (_my friend.)"

Obron settled back in his chair, relaxed prematurely.

"How about a drink, then?" He said with a fine smile. Dylon returned the look, letting out a small laugh as he imagined the wealth that would soon be dancing between his fingers, instead of this dagger.

_I'm going to be killing my brother, soon. Won't that be pleasant? _He thought with a tint of glee. Dylon pulled the dagger from the table, and began playing with it again, flipping it about his body with one hand.

Murtagh moved in time with the sway of the ship, Nasuada's gasps spurring him. With each of her moans he pulled closer to her, Nasuada's eyes shut closed as her mouth was pulled taught in ecstasy. Murtagh shuddered as he finished, rolling off from on top of her, and sitting on the edge of her bed. Nasuada's quarters were large, for a ship, with enough room for a large mattress and even a drawer. A mirror was found opposite of them, and Murtagh rose his green eyes to find Nasuada looking at him, raised in a seated position, her blankets covering the lower portions of her body.

"What's wrong?" She asked, touching his scarred back. Before, that would have sent him recoiling from her, but now, to his dismay, he accepted the touch, allowing it to comfort him. He frowned then, his raven hair falling over his face like a veil.

_No. _

"I should be going." He said stiffly, raising himself from the bed. He eyed the floor for his clothing.

"It's still night." She said sadly as he felt her watch him. He found his trousers, pulling them on quickly as he reached for his shoes.

"The sooner I leave the better." He said quietly as he pulled his tan shirt over an athletic torso. He turned, and allowed his dark verdant eyes to fall on her face once again. She was frowning, and crossed her arms across her round breasts.

"So you take what you want and leave? Is that it, Murtagh?" She accused, her voice spitting venom with each word. Murtagh was silent, and said nothing as he reached for the handle of her door.

"You used to stay and sleep with me, hold me while I dreamt of our life together." Murtagh paused as his hand absorbed the coolness of the metal bar that opened the door to Nasuada's quarters.

"Then you should know that what this is was in fact a dream, nothing more. Goodnight, Nasuada." Murtagh responded, and left her abode before she could respond. He was greeted with a hallway that was darker than night, holding his head as the ship swayed between the rolling waves underneath them. He groped around until he found a small staircase, and climbed up, until he hit his head on hard wood. Swearing, he felt above him, until he came across the rusty hatch that separated the middle-deck with the upper regions of the ship. He pulled the hatch free and swallowed a gulp of fresh air, his eyes adjusting to the new light as millions of stars looked down on him. A small breeze ruffled his hair and the sails whipped silently, wood creaking as wind pushed gently on their frames. Murtagh stepped onto the deck, which was quiet, save for the footsteps of the dwarf sailors, who walked about, checking ropes and sails and cleaning. He walked towards the railing of the boat, placing pale hands on the brown wood. Across the sea, the moon was large and almost invasive, a beam of moonlight reflecting off of the ocean, seemingly trailing straight towards him. He shuddered, realizing for the first time how cold he was, and how tired he had become.

_I need rest. _

Murtagh was about to leave the railing as he heard a voice call his name.

"Murtagh, if I could have a word."

_Nasuadon. _

"Of course." Murtagh said between clenched teeth as the black youth took up space beside him. The young beyonder had hair darker than his, long and flowing. His head was shaved on both sides, leaving his hair in a sort of mowhawk that grew looser as it descended down the back of his head. He wore a fishnet shirt, revealing a heavy and built chest, while the half-cloak of the _Dusk Riders _was fastened to his shoulder. He was similar in appearance to Nasuada: Square face, slanted eyes, and large lips, though his nose was slightly wider than hers.

"The night is cool, is it not?" He asked conversationally. Murtagh turned his attention back to the sea.

"Aye, it is." He answered. They stood in silence for a few more moments, until Nasuadon spoke again.

"Did you ever think our world was so large?" He inquired. Murtagh had to admit he hadn't. In all of his years, he never imagined that there was something so vast and massive as the sea. And yet there was more, according to one of the dwarf sailors. _Much more. _

"They say there are even more islands and land-masses, some even larger than Alagaesia." Murtagh offered, and Nasuadon laughed quietly, his white teeth shining.

"I see you have taken to speaking with the dwarves."

Murtagh shrugged.

"They are an interesting people. Industrious."

"I can agree to that." Nasuadon said.

More silence.

"I know what you're doing, Murtagh." Nasuadon said finally, barely above a whisper.

"Know this: My father has planned for her to be matched with Orrin, to combine our two kingdoms into one after the war is won. I will not have you ruin his design. Is that clear?" Nasuadon spoke without looking at Murtagh, and Murtagh himself clenched the railing, his nails digging into portions of soft wood.

"It ends tonight." Nasuadon looked at Murtagh with those dark eyes of his.

"I told her as much." Murtagh answered back. Nasuadon didn't look surprised. He turned away from the railing, and walked up deck, his small cape moving behind him on the soft kiss of wind.

_Orrin. _

Murtagh could see the young King's sneering face now: handsome and powerful and _everywhere. _He leaned over the railing, looking at the green water as it splashed against their craft.

_They think I'm baseborn. If they only knew- _

_Knew what? That you were Morzan's son? You would be put to death. _

Murtagh wondered how long it would take him to die if he threw himself in the water. Drowning was no clean death, but it was better than the death he would be given if they discovered his true parentage.

_But I'm innocent. Maybe they wouldn't do anything. _

_Don't be a fool. They would kill you. And not just that, Murtagh. They would shame you, first. _

Murtagh went to bed with dark thoughts, and they rose with him the next day.

"Is that . . . Alagaesia?" Zidda questioned as they approached growing stone mountain, basked in clouds. Neybark smiled at the young boy, as they all crowded on deck.

"It is."

Jagged mountains stood over the massive sea, and they were so large that they obstructed the sun. Murtagh stood with Zidda, while Nasuadon and Nasuada stood together, surrounded by the men Orrin had sent with them. Murtagh had stolen looks at Nasuada, but she had ignored them, Nasuadon glaring at him in her stead.

_Enough. _

As they grew closer to the rocky shore that was found beneath the mountains, Murtagh noticed ships: Dozens of them, all spread out among the dwindling sea. Gulls screamed above, and bells rang in the distance. The ships bore sigils: Strange markings, animals, and then the familiar dwarf flag they had seen in Kamal were all present. Their ship went around the curving beach, until they were at the mouth of a large and black cave.

"Free the notches!" Orso barked, and Zidda ran to the side of the ship as a large thundering sound was heard beneath them. Murtagh followed, and was amazed to find large wooden prongs that had sprung from the ship's innards.

"What is that for?" He asked as Neybark joined them. Neybark's black eyes shined.

"You'll see."

They entered the cave, dim fires lit around the circular ceiling. The ship jolted as Murtagh watched large metal chains catch on the notches, and then drag the ship up into the cave, which Murtagh realized was at an _incline. _They sharply rose, metal chains dragging them further and further upwards, until finally they came at the top with a crash of water.

Murtagh's eyes widened as he was greeted by the most magnificent city he had ever seen.

"Welcome to Farthen Dur. This is the city of Tronjheim." Neybark said as he moved to the front of the deck. Their ship was freed of the chains as they moved across the large artificial lake, stone towers that looked more like giant behemoths rather than buildings greeting them. Viscerally built, the structures of Tronjheim were sharp and efficient. No space was spared, and often the buildings were connected, locking several structures together by massive cylinders. Their ship docked inside an oval-like construction, while heavy drums announced their arrival. To the left and right, stone pathways rose from the clear waters, and the ship lowered its walkways with a low thump. A dwarf gave Murtagh his sword and belt, and Murtagh thanked the dwarf as he hurried off to give Nasuadon and the others their supplies. Zidda belted his sword to his waist, red hair softly moving across his forehead.

"Amazing . . . this place is amazing." Zidda said, breathless. They were lead from the ship, Neybark taking the lead. Dwarves hurried past them to tend to Orso's boat, and gradually they left the oval docks, and were meet with the grand city of Tronjheim. The streets were smooth stone, wide and spacious, as every corner was hugged by at least half a dozen sellers, waving wares and food in their hands.

"Lesser guilds." Neybark announced over them as they walked past. Murtagh watched, awe-struck, as the city moved by him. Dwarves looked at him curiously on the street, or from the lower levels of towering buildings, which nearly reached the ceiling of the carved-out mountain. Stalagmites drooped from some places, and the dwarves turned these into compartments as well. Murtagh saw one rounded stalagmite riddled with windows, and nearly laughed when he saw a Dwarf ride a cart into it, the cart hanging from nearly invisible zip-lines.

While humorous, he could see the sense behind it. Suddenly, horns blazed as a voice bellowed in a tongue that Murtagh did not understand. Neybark stopped, and Nasuada finally spoke.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"The King- He's coming to greet us. I was leading you to his castle but . .. get down, _kneel." _

Murtagh did as he was bid, and watched as everyone on the streets did the same. The peddlers fell silent as the horns trumpeted, until finally he heard the cries of some ox-like creature. The sound of hooves clicking on stone was heard, until finally, the sound of horns diminished. The strange voice began anew, and Neybark spoke, quietly but clearly.

"You may rise." He said. As they did so, Murtagh saw the King. He was a tall dwarf, almost as large as a human male who was above average height. Murtagh guessed the King was nearly six feet, with muscles bound by thin black fabric as stone bracelets graced his thick wrists. A massive crown sat atop his head, and he stood on a pedestal being dragged by two oxen creatures, each beast possessing three legs on either side of them. The King was guarded by six armored dwarf-banes, locked inside suits of armor painted gold, with curved axes in their six-fingered grip. The king stepped from the pedestal, as Murtagh moved ahead of the group slightly, to get a better view of the monarch.

Neybark bowed . . . but as he did one of the dwarf-bane soldiers stepped out of rank, cutting down one of his own with his axe. The other dwarf-bane guards swirled as they went to protect their king . . . but quarrels found themselves inside bleeding skulls. The surviving dwarf-bane pounced on the King, axe raised. Neybark screamed as Murtagh pushed him aside, pulling his sword from its sheath as he narrowly blocked the axe blow from connecting with the King's unarmored torso. The King fell backwards as the assassin hissed, dropping the axe and pulling a stone dagger from underneath the sleeve of the armor. The dwarf vaulted at Murtagh, who shoved the dagger point away from his face with a swift swipe of his sword. The dwarf landed on all fours, and then jumped again, screaming. Murtagh noticed in his peripheral vision robed bodies falling from the buildings that flanked them . . . but he focused on the dwarf as it attacked. The assassin was fast, but dragged down by armor. Murtagh blocked all of the blows, and then found an opening. The assassin gasped as it tried to cover its face . . . but it was too late. Murtagh slipped the point of his blade underneath the edge of the assassin's dagger, and drove it into the assassin's eye.

It died instantly. Murtagh dropped his bloody sword as authorities surrounded him, spears leveled on his body.

"Varna! _Varna! Megmamen a Gun-La!" _Neybark shouted, and the bush of spears around Murtagh shrunk as the King himself walked through. He stood slightly taller than Murtagh, and looked down at him with two black eyes. Suddenly, giant arms lifted him into the air, and the King shouted joyfully.

"_Szabior! Az emba vedelmezo aGun-la!" _The dwarf king shouted, and as Murtagh was shaken in the air, he looked at Neybark, confusion written on his face. Neybark wiped sweat from his brow and shouted over the cheers of the dwarves around them.

"He says you are the savior of kings!" He screamed, and Murtagh _laughed _as he was thrown into the air.

"HE failed."

Obron wrung his hands, his heart beating faster than he would like. He wished he had a cup of wine . . . there _was _a cup, on the table, but he dare not drink it. It was a test, and like all things when dealing with Vermal Nyste, passing the tests meant life or death.

"I . . . I had no idea that he would . . ."

Vermal waved a hand. His face was shrouded by a black hood, and he thrummed his fingers on the glass table between them.

"You planted the false evidence on the assassin, did you not?"

"Y-yes."

Vermal smiled, softly.

"Good. You are free to go."

Obron was about to thank Vermal as a blade slid across his neck. He groped at his open throat, blood spilling between his fingers as it splattered onto the glass table. The last thing he saw before he died was Vermal removing his hood, and Obron swallowed his own blood in surprise as he saw a young dwarib take a sip of the wine that was left on the table. Obron's lifeless body crashed against the glass, and then slid onto the ground.


	51. Chapter 42

"What is this?" Arya lifted a spoonful of brown mush and allowed it to dribble back into her wooden bowl.

"Food," Brom informed between mouthfuls as they sat before a roaring campfire. Eragon reclined on his pack, his newly made shield, bearing his personal coat of arms, a blue dragon flying over azure flames. In addition laid beside him on the ground freshly crafted sword snugly fit into a polished wood sheath. Saphira flew high above in the starry night, while the low hum of conversation straddled the small group.

They were fifteen in total, led by Aerion, a captain from Mhampir's hold. The man was fine and true, a noble, if not average, man. Eragon ate the same dirt-colored soup, which was filled with chunks of dried meat and left-over seasoning. They were far south, and Aerion said they would reach the human lands that bordered the Dwarf Kingdoms soon. In a way, Eragon was sad. It would mark the end of yet another part of his life, crossing the land with Brom and Saphira, fending for themselves while the world turned to frost around them. Eragon wondered what it was like in the North, wondered how heavily the snows were falling. They had been traveling south for some weeks now, and they had received word that Orrin had left Surda, making his way towards the same destination.

"He is enthralled," One of the scry-mages had told them. "He cannot wait to meet you, Eragon. He plans to name you his new Champion. And he is intrigued by your dragon."

_I wonder if I'll like Orrin. _

Saphira spoke often, and she even possessed the ability to speak vocally, though she did it sparingly. She preferred to speak to Eragon within his mind, and he didn't mind at all. Their connection had grown stronger as she matured, and Eragon considered her one of his closest companions.

_You might. I've never met him, but he seems just. _Eragon said. He closed his eyes, and allowed his mind to see what Saphira's pupils gazed upon. They camped in medium-sized grass, yellow in appearance, softer than silk. As Saphira flew above them, Eragon saw the bright fire dwindle as she rose higher and higher, her wide wings spreading far. The grass swayed in the night air, and Saphira spotted small foxes as they ran, hounded by the moon.

_Just is good, I suppose. You humans have a wide range of emotions. There is no uniform way you act, it seems. _

_It's only normal. Dragons are most likely the same, from what Brom described. _

Saphira didn't respond, and Eragon felt her mind ease away from his. She was like that sometimes, a faraway affection, afraid to delve too deep into actual conversation. Somehow, they had gained the ability to communicate by way of smell, feel, and touch, and in some respects, it was a better means of talking than actually formulating words.

"What did you eat . . . back in your land?" Eragon ventured tentatively as Arya frowned into her bowl.

"There's meat in this," She said, sighing as she overturned the food, feeding the ground below them.

"You shouldn't waste a meal like that." Brom growled. He had seemingly recovered from his wounds, and his cough had lessened. He was larger and more robust than ever before, his shoulders wide and his arms large.

Arya ignored him and looked at Eragon. The white-blonde streaks in her hair beamed, rivaling the moon.

"We ate food better than this. Freshly baked breads . . . cheeses . . . greens. And no meat." She said with a tint of sharpness, glaring at Brom. They were all alone, the camps of the travelers separated. Aerion gave them a large amount of mobility, much more so than Newlyn had. The man had been upset over Mhampir's pardoning of Brom, but Mhampir himself seemed not to care.

"What is it called? Where you lived?" Eragon tried again. Arya crossed her arms and reclined her head, a fine long neck stretching backwards.

"There are many names. But the blanket term my people use is _Du Welden Varden. _There are many dialects among us Elves, even among those of the same caste. The High Elven I speak is different from that spoken in Ellesmera, and the tongue sang in Jalineor is even further from ours."

"The High Elves are among the most overly complex races I have ever come across." Brom said as he wiped his mouth on his bare arm. Arya gave him a sneer, her fine mouth curdling. Her expression softened, however, and to Eragon's surprise, she asked him a question.

"Did you . . ." She began. She swallowed, and looked at Eragon and Brom self-consciously, the dropped her head again. "Did you know my _father?" _She whispered. Brom thought for a moment.

"Evander? Yes. He often visited Vroengard. He was a good Elf. Just and true. He was an Elf of action, an Elf who always dabbled in human affairs. He was smart, giving, and kind. You look like him, with that hair."

Arya looked sad, an emotion so . . . _deep_ that Eragon was surprised he was seeing it on her face. Her scars had healed, but they would forever mark her face, marring her beauty. They added to the emotion, to her grief, and made her look almost pitiful.

"I always wondered . . . I always wondered what he was like. Islanzadi had nothing but bad things to say about him. My father." Arya sighed, leaning over slightly to pull at the long grass between her feet.

"She said that his involvement the Forsworn Rebellion is what led to his death." She rasped, her eyes glistening with water.

"He failed . . . which is why . . . why I'm here . . . why I thought I could . . ." She looked away from them, and rose abruptly. She fled into the tall grass of the plains, and Eragon rose to go after her.

"Let her go, lad. There's nothing you could say." Brom called behind him. Eragon looked on as Arya's back diminished in the darkness.

"How do you know?" Eragon asked, still looking after her.

"Because you two come from totally different worlds. You couldn't be any more different." Brom said matter-of-factly, and Eragon sagged his shoulders, knowing that he was right.

"Where did the Elf run off to?" Aerion said gruffly, materializing beyond the fire.

"She needed time alone." Brom answered as Eragon sat back down, placing his shield back on his lap.

"It's night . . . I doubt we'll find danger in the face of the Empire tonight . . . but still, it's dangerous. There are things much darker than soldiers in these marches. Shadow-lions, among them."

Eragon remembered the large, dusky feline beast that Mhampir called a pet.

He saw the terrible red eyes again, felt the breath against his forehead . . .

_ERAGON!_

Saphira's voice erupted as Eragon felt a sharp touch circle around his neck. He fell over as it could feel a leathery-like cord tighten around his throat. He groped at his neck, but felt nothing there.

_Eragon! _She called again, her voice fading as the touch at his neck vanished. He jolted up as Aerion tried to help him up, arming his shield and sword.

"What is it, boy?" He asked, hands at his waist, and swearing as he realized he was unarmed.

"Saphira. Something is wrong. Something-"

Saphira crashed between them, picking up dirt as she tunneled into the ground. A gross stench, no, something worse than that settled around them, and the night _howled _as some type of beast flapped ripped batwings, crouching over Saphira's half-buried body. It flexed its wings, pushing Aerion and Eragon away.

"Die." The monster croaked, speaking from a black beak riddled with holes that dripped worms and black centipedes.

"BRISINGR!" Eragon screamed, both of his palms opened to their fullest extent as an orb of blue flame sprung forth, growing larger as it flew over the tall grass that surrounded them. The raven hissed and spread its wings, rising in the air as the whip it wielded trailed after it, like a grossly elongated tail. The ball of fire exploded far in the plains, engulfing the dry grass in an indigo inferno. With a tattered and decaying arm wrapped in cloth, it struck the whip against the night air, splitting all sound with a piercing _crack. _Eragon raised his shield as the whip came crashing down, thumping against the wood with a heavy-sounded strike. Eragon pushed the whip away as the creature cawed and swung it back, and then attacked again. Eragon narrowly avoided the weapon as it _cracked _next to his ear, a dull ring replacing sound as he felt Saphira's mind.

_What are they?_

_I don't know. _

"Eragon, careful!" Brom roared, his sword in his hand as Aerion returned with their party, all of them armed. The creature flew higher into the dark sky, and Eragon rushed to where Saphira was, pulling her from the dirt. Her wings were crumpled and her neck was red, but her scales had protected her from the worst of the damage. A blackness passed over him, a deep and guttural howl heard as it traveled over Eragon, darkening his night by several shades. Brom grunted behind him as the second attacker pounced, long robes billowing, covering a furred body.

Eragon went to his head and pulled spiders that savagely crawled around in his hair, having fallen off of the disgusting creature. He turned as Saphira reoriented herself behind him, watching as Brom desperately fought with what he now could see was a wolf-like creature.

"_Stena Brisino Algufar!" _ Brom screamed as the wolf was raised into the air and consumed by blue flame. Brom lurched visibly as Eragon came running towards him, his sword poking against the dirt of the land. Men screamed to their left, and Eragon saw with horror as the first creature struck out eyes with its whip, segments of sharpened bone gleaming in the light of the violent moon. The wolf broke free of the fire-orb, growling.

"_Daz nacht Oro Boruet!" _it howled, and Eragon was stricken with blindness as shadowy arms snaked his body together. He struggled against the dark, and heard Brom fall over, the slurping tongue of the wolf near him.

_Eragon, focus on my voice! _Saphira cried. Eragon did, and he saw through her eyes as Saphira's magic freed his body from the spell. Saphira dove at the back of the wolf, and the beast leaped above her dive, and then as she flew away for another attack, reached with its _arm, _bone and muscle and skin stretching far beyond normal limits, grabbing her leg. Eragon rushed forward, aided by Saphira's eyes as she turned and struggled. He sliced the creature across the back with his sword, and _feces _mixed with blood came spilling from the wound, scorpions jumping from between the torn and moldy cloak, clawing at Eragon's face. His vision returned, and he pulled the insects from his face, smashing them against the ground. Brom rose as well, breathing haggardly.

"What are they?" He asked as Saphira safely flew high into the sky, the wolf's arm dragging across the plains with an audible slither, returning to its body.

Brom spit blood into the tall grass, raising his large sword.

"Ra'zac." He said breathlessly.

Eragon screamed as a wicked blade came crashing down on Brom's shoulder. The man gasped in surprise, and Eragon saw a man the color of curdled milk, with a growing red mane. He had a different face, but the voice, the sword, and the aura was the same. It was the creature from Gil'ead.

"Close, Caomhim. But not quite. They are _my Ra'zac." _

"_Terra anrano cahaf!" _Brom swung his blade into the ground as a spike of earth jumped into existence behind him. The red-mane evaded the attack with a laughing hiss, eyes glowing with malevolent glee. The wolf ra'zac joined the red-mane's side. Eragon hurried to Brom, watching as red blood bleached his shoulder.

"Are you alright?" Eragon asked.

"I'll manage." Brom said with a grimace. Before them, the two evils stood, framed by the laughing glow of the horrid nighttime moon.


	52. Chapter 43

Arya rushed back to the camp. She felt a dark force, an ethereal evil that seemed to choke out all reality. She felt as she had all those months before . . . chased by that malevolent being. She paused amongst the waving tall grass, gripping her chest. Underneath the clothing she wore, she could still feel the raised scars trailing across her body.

_What is this? _

_Fear? _

She could run. She could flee, make her way back to Du Welden Varden. She did not have the egg with her, and no doubt the curse Islanzadi had afflicted her with no longer crawled upon her skin . . .

_Evander would fight. _

_Evander would die. _A second voice within her retorted. Arya closed her eyes shut, curling her small hands into fists as tears welled through her eyelids, dripping onto her cheeks.

_Then I will die, as Evander did, and bring further shame to House Valbhorethlian. _

Arya shot her eyes open and ran through the grass, magical energy building within her. She saw, in the distance, a large blue fire, consuming the yellow grass voraciously as the wind spurred it on. She inched around the blaze, covering her face as smoke billowed into her eyes, waving her hair. She heard screams, screams of humans and roars and the sound of swords touching in brutal battle. She passed the fire, and then was greeted by the sight of some winged beast dragging a writhing human by the cord of some whip-like weapon. The human screamed, until the creature cackled, jerking the whip upwards, and causing the body of the human to fall headless to the ground. She rushed into the fray, unable to tell where Eragon, Aerion, and Brom where. Men still stood . . . but there were significantly less as there were before. Counting her, there had been fifteen. Now, there were four or five, at best.

_All humans look the same. _She growled.

"ELF!" Aerion threw Arya around, thrusting a sword into her surprised hands.

"Where are the others?" She asked hurriedly, the flying creature circling above them, cawing.

Aerion pointed to his right, and Arya's eyes followed his strong arm as she saw the flash of blades, and her eyes settled on Brom, his sword crossing with a blade of the same make that the creature who had maimed her carried.

Her eyes narrowed in anger, forcing the fear that was rising up into her throat back down into the depths of her bowels. She had no time for emotion.

"Watch out, Elf! It's coming back down!" Aerion screamed, pushing her out of the way as the whip snaked down to the earth. It dug harmlessly into the ground, Arya sliding across the dirt on the soles of her boots as Aerion spun the opposite direction.

"The mage. Does he still live?" Arya called. Aerion shook his head, his eyes trained on the sky, the creature laughing manically, its beak opening and closing grotesquely. An arrow sped into the air behind her, aimed for the beast. The creature easily evaded the attack, and sent its whip spearing through the dark. Arya ducked, and she heard the slop and crack as the whip impaled the man. Arya turned, eyes filled with horror, as the bowman was spun around in the air, and thrown far away into the field. The raven creature landed before her, whip curling around the creature's body.

"Elf," It rasped. The being wore a dark cloak, the upper portion of its head covered by a matted hood. A long beak poked from the ebony clothing. Insects crawled all over the beast's form, and Arya noticed as some lost purchase on the being's body, falling into the grass with quiet _thud._ Aerion and the other survivors took up flank with her, and she frowned as they advanced.

"Stay back. I'll take care of this . . . thing. You'll only get in my way."

None of the humans protested as they retreated from her. The raven cawed and pounced, wings spreading behind it. Arya ran forward as well, seeing the movement before the sound cracked in the air. She leaned herself backward, the whip curling upwards into the sky. She fell to the ground and rolled to her left as the raven threw the whip down. She jumped to her feet, rushing at the beast, sword pointed.

"FOOL!" The raven croaked with murderous glee, its whip flying for Arya's back.

"_Terra omanaro anga_," Arya's right arm drew stone from the ground, armoring her from the tip of her fingers to the ball of her shoulder. She turned as she ran, allowing the whip to curl around her rock-covered arm. The being, surprised, pulled its whip further towards it, causing Arya to speed behind it, running along as she was dragged. The whip went slack as the raven creature roared, preparing to lift the whip again . . . But Arya pulled the weapon with a wave of her arm, the bone links of the whip digging into the stone of her arm. The raven screamed as she impaled the beast from the back, her sword digging into the chest of the beast. Dark blood spilled from the body, and globs of fecal matter splattered against her sword arm as the creature writhed in pain. Arya spun the beast around, her stone arm falling away, freeing herself from the whip as the creature scrabbled against the ground, no longer cut by Arya's sword. As it raised its head, Arya lifted her hand, straitening her fingers so it laid flat on the cold touch of night.

"_Brisino vaya." _She muttered as dark red flames exploded from her palm, circling around the creature as it howled in pain. She closed her hand in a fist, and the flames constricted together, forming into a tight red ball. Arya lifted the orb of fire in the air, and then crashed it against the ground, the flames bursting into the sky with a thick plume of smoke. Small fires burned around the charred body, laying in a circle of flattened grass, crisp and black. She looked down at the body, and was surprised to find something resembling a human, with no wings or beak.

"You did it . . ." Aerion whispered behind her as fatigue settled over Arya. She ignored him as smoke drifted into her nostrils, and she inhaled the fumes willingly. She turned to the sound of the fight that still raged, between Brom and Eragon and the other creatures. She sensed it again, the evil, the torture, the bleak walls of Gil'ead, that horrid room . . . stained with her own blood. Her own fear.

_Weakness. _

"It is not over yet, Human." Arya said as she raised her sword, stepping over the corpse of the vanquished creature. She bounded into the fray opposite of her, screaming as her sword was raised high above her head.

_Are you watching, Evander? Is this how you threw your life away? Fighting back to back with Humans? _

Arya smiled as she landed, her sword ringing off sharp claws as Eragon grunted in surprise, narrowly saving him from a swipe that would have cost him his neck. The wolf creature snarled, launching itself at her as Saphira dived at his back. It placed a hand on the ground and propelled itself upwards, Saphira flying underneath it, baring teeth in anger. The wolf slowly fell to the ground, eyes overflowing with anger as Eragon stepped to her, shield raised.

"Stay out of this, Human." She said, eyes locked on the wolf-beast.

"I'm not a human, I'm a Rider, now."

"If one is half-fool he is still a fool." Arya retorted. Before Eragon could respond, the wolf pounced on them, arms digging into the earth, forcing it forward.

Arya and Eragon attacked together, as Saphira prepared to land another blow overhead.

Not far from them, Brom bled, losing his battle with Durza as the moon watched, impassive and all powerful during this terrible night.


	53. Chapter 44

Brom swung his broadsword in front of his face as a zigzagging blow from Durza was narrowly evaded. Their swords rung together like some unholy chorus, and Durza leapt backwards, his face painted in hues of satanic glee.

"I never thought fighting one of the Forsworn would be so _easy_" He jeered as Brom shuddered, a splash of blood staining the yellow grass, pale in the twilight shine of the moon. The wound on his shoulder stung as another gash across his torso burned, and a broken rib protested with each breath he took. He felt his energy fading, his eyes growing tired as he stood, swaying on his feet precariously as Durza rushed at him again. Brom shot his eyes open and ducked underneath a savage sweeping blow, rolling on the ground so that he was now behind Durza. Durza yowled in surprise as Brom cut his calve, the tip of the blade dragging across the bulging leg muscle of Durza's borrowed body. The former Forsworn raised his blade for the killing blow, but Durza swung around at the last moment, punching Brom hard across the face. Brom groaned as he was thrown backward, hearing the sounds of the Ra'zac as it fought Eragon and Arya.

_I need to stay alive. For them. For Saphira. _

He saw her face then, as clear as the sun shines during a summer day. Her dark hair, her solemn eyes . . .

_Selena. _ He saw his dragon next, also named Saphira, beautiful and radiant, feather-like wings flapping against the air as she rose into the heavens, like some fallen god returning to a lofty and celestial throne.

"Now, you _die," _Durza sneered as he pounced, unaffected by Brom's wound. Brom, reinvigorated, ran as well, meeting Durza in the middle of their battlefield. The fire Eragon started grew rapidly, and they were lit not only by the moon, but by the ethereal blue flame that jumped and kicked and sparkled as it consumed the tall plains. Brom and Durza engaged in a swirling dance, their heels kicking up dirt as they evaded, blocked, attacked, and paused, only to resume their dual offensive. No magic was uttered, no insults were levied. They dueled, like two Knights fighting for a lost love. Both of their faces were drawn in concentration, a strange sense of enmity mixed with companionship as they gradually understood the ebb and flow of each other's movements. Soon, Brom knew where Durza's blade would swing next, and Durza, his. For what seemed like hours this persisted, two supernatural beings bent on destroying the other.

Durza crouched and jabbed his sword at Brom's stomach, but Brom twisted aside, swinging his sword in a sideways half-arc. Durza bellowed as he caught the blow with his open palm, causing Brom to sever the upper portion of Durza's right hand. Blood spurted from the wound as Durza snarled and fell on his back, Brom continuing the assault. He raised his sword and brought it down, again and again and again, Durza's defense growing feebler every time. With each strike Durza cried, first in fury but then, as his sword lost power and shattered, in fear. He slid away from Brom, grasping his wounded hand as Brom advanced, kicking away fragments of Durza's useless weapon.

"_Caomhim. _Even if you kill me, you will not succeed. Galbatorix cannot be beaten."

Durza laughed hysterically, his hair falling over a face beaded with sweat. Blue flames waved behind him, giving him an even crueler look as his eyes regarded Brom with fear.

"He has found a _way. _To return the Dragons to what they were, before time began."

Durza cackled, waving his wounded arm at Brom, black blood splattering over Brom's face. His sword wavered, and Durza sprung at him, his good hand cut as a shard of his former blade dug into pale fingers, a makeshift dagger that Durza desperately stabbed at Brom's eyes. Brom leaned his head back, plunging his pommel into Durza's stomach. Durza staggered backward, his mouth filling with blood.

"What do you mean? Do you speak of . . . _Eldeena?" _Brom rasped as smoke filled his lungs. Durza laughed, louder and louder, his eyes insane, pupils constricting.

"I have failed, in every aspect I have failed . . . but it is a blessing that I will not see the destruction that awaits you, Caomhim. You will be sealed, and when that occurs, you shall fight against the very thing you swore to protect." Durza looked behind him, the roaring blue fire, and then hopped into the flames. His body crumbled like a statue made from dirt, and bright lights came streaming from the corpse as it fell into the bottom of the fire's bowels. The lights bounced across the land, and Brom watched as formally dead soldiers rose up and ran into the night.

_Shades. _

Brom hefted the long blade of his sword on his good shoulder, and returned to the sound of battle that still persisted between Arya and Eragon and the Ra'zac. He walked through the half-burned field, his dark trousers brushing against smoldering grass that reached his waist. He came upon the sight of the Ra'zac scratching at Eragon's shield as Saphira gnawed at the creature's neck. It roared, turning to rip Saphira off, but at that moment Eragon stabbed his blade into the creature's stomach. Arya then came from the shadows, slicing off the Ra'zac's outstretched arm. Brom then saw Aerion, the old and faithful Knight, as he charged from behind Eragon, forcing the Ra'zac backward. Brom ran at them, joining the fray. He pounded at the ground as he came up on the Ra'zac's left, and the creature turned and looked at him, fury in its eyes. Brom swiped at the creature's feet, but the Ra'zac threw itself in the air, landing a dozen feet away from Brom and his companions. It looked at them, snarling as flames licked at its tattered cloak.

"_Lissan Sie Kcorop" _It muttered. Suddenly, black mist rose from the Ra'zac, dissipating its form, leaving nothing but a pale and scarred body behind, as the shadowy cloud rose up into the night sky. Brom's developed Rider-eyes could see the visage of the man before it hit the ground, but Eragon couldn't. The boy rushed to the body.

"Erago-" Brom began before a debilitating cough racked him, bile rising from his mouth, blood dripping from the corners.

Eragon paused at the body, confused.

"Sl-_Sloan?" _He gasped. Brom limped to where Eragon stood, his sword shaking. Arya and Aerion helped him, and soon he too looked at the man he had recognized from Caravhall.

Sloan _coughed. _

"He lives," Arya said, raising her blade to finish the butcher off.

"Wait!" Eragon cried, falling to his knees, cradling Sloan like one would hold a baby. Arya _tsked, _but lowered her sword. The wounds that Sloan had sustained as the Ra'zac still afflicted him, a missing arm and numerous gaping wounds to the torso. He did live, but it wouldn't be for long.

"_Er-Eragon . . ." _Sloan said weakly. His voice was watery and tittering, and Brom knew the man would be dead at any moment.

"Sloan! Garrow. Do you know what happened to Garrow?" He said, his face close to Sloan's.

"_My-My daughter . . ." _ Sloan began. Eragon nodded his head hurriedly.

"Yes, she lives. She's safe." Eragon informed.

Sloan _smiled. _

"_I-I win, Ga-Garrow." _He said weakly.

"Where is he?!" Eragon demanded.

Sloan opened his eyes, and with the last of his strength, motioned with his good arm to some area in the distance. Brom followed the direction, and saw a charred lump among half-burned grass. It looked like a _human _body.

_The other Ra'zac. _

The dots connected quickly within Brom's mind.

Eragon frowned.

"I don't . . . Arya . . killed that . . . that beast."

"You _killed_ Ga-Garrow. He . . . he was turned . . . with . . . me . . ."

Sloan began to laugh weakly.

"_I-I win. I outlived th-that ba-ba-ba-stard." _

Eragon screamed in anger as he hacked at Sloan's face. He struck and struck and struck, until Sloan's portrait was a bloody mess of meat and brain. Still, he continued, striking Sloan as blood pattered onto Eragon's face.

"Enough, boy." Aerion said, pulling Eragon back as the boy screamed at the top of his lungs. He yelled and fought and bellowed, until he gradually gave way to sobs, turning into Aerion's arms as Aerion looked at Sloan's corpse with haunted eyes.

They all stood still, the only sound that hung in the air was Eragon's choking cries, and the light cackle of the contemptuous blue fire that burned around them.

Killian felt his mask press against his face as the wind buffered at it. He held onto the railings of one piers that snaked about the coast of Kamal. In the distance, drums beat, but where he was, there was no sound. One of the _Dusk Riders, _Nasuadon's personal force that Killian quickly converted, walked ahead, a torch in his hand as they followed the pier that gradually left the shore and deep into a watery cavern that was buffeted by white bubbling waves. Killian gathered his robes around himself as he walked.

They traveled for nearly twenty minutes, going further and further down, the black youth, with his hair in the same savage fashion as the desert Prince, pausing at some points, testing the integrity of the wood they traversed on. Soon, they passed over a massive black chasm, the old wooden planks the only thing separating them from a bottomless death. Something moved in the pit, the slithering sound echoing until it reached Killian's charred ears. The guard paused, alarmed.

"Keep going, you fool." Killian growled. The Dusk Rider shuffled past, hands on the tried rope that lined the rickety bridge. Finally, they crossed the chasm, and were met with another rock-ledge, and then a tunnel that continued even _deeper _into the earth. Finally, they began to hear a hum of low conversation as they met the men who had invited them there, into the bottom of all creation. The tunnel ceased, and Killian was greeted with three men standing in the center of a curving pit, eviscerated by excavation. One of them was richly dressed, and two of the others were obviously guards. The walls were covered with ladders and makeshift lifts, ropes hanging unused from levers, untouched after the day's work. A box was in the hands of the nicely dressed man, a beyonder with skin darker than the dirt he stood in. His hair was short and cropped, but the red hue of it was still easily seen.

"You don't look like you have gold on you," He said, his accent swarthy and barely understandable.

"Let me see it." Killian ordered.

"Not without the gold." The man said.

"I will not ask again."

The man frowned, but did as he was bid. Opening the box, Killian's eyes beheld a black egg, shining and resplendent despite its color.

"Do you have the gold?" The man asked, almost hopefully.

"No." Killian answered quickly.

The man sighed. "You were the first Lord I told of this. I had hoped to support the new regime . . . Lord of Surda. But of course, you wasted both of our times. Only now you waste your life as well."

Spears hurled from the shadows, one of them impaling the Dusk Rider as he reached for his blade. Dozens of beyonders crawled from tight crevasses and corners within the stone, bearing daggers and short blades. Killian raised his eyes and saw spear-throwers, who moved into the dim-light of the torches that burned dully. They wore all black- and easily hid outside light's touch, standing on raised blocks of wood that hugged the cut walls.

"Kill him." The man said, stepping backwards as his two guards stepped into his former position. Spears from the wall came at Killian, and the man raised a hand, stopping them before they touched his person. He sent them flying back into the skulls of their owners, while the dagger-wielders rushed at him.

"B_risin Talo." _

Blue fire engulfed each of the attackers, and then Killian spread his arms wide, palms open.

"_Stenna se unen". _

The flaming bodies were thrown together, clumping the two guards of the man, burning them in a fleshly prison, with bars made of fire. As the last of his men died, the richly dressed man stepped backward, dropping the box.

"You- you can have it. I will tell no one, I swear, my lord" He said hurriedly, and Killian paused, his boots kicking up dust.

"This is the only egg you have found?" Killian asked.

The man nodded.

"No loose ends." Killian thrust out his hand, grabbing the man by the skull, burning the man's brain from within the hard confines of bone. The man slumped over wordlessly, dead. Killian picked up the box, lifting the egg from its confines.

For the second time in his life, Killian's palm burned as the egg began to crack open. He smiled within himself, remembering what had been done to him, so many years passed.

_I will not rest until you are dead, Galbatorix. _


	54. Chapter 45

"I think they add to your charm," Katrina said as she traced the lines of Roran's tattoo, the vast design stretching from his face all the way to his right foot. She trailed her fingers along the thick lines as they crossed his bare chest, and she smiled up at him, her light brown eyes gleaming in the morning sun, flecks of green swimming in the beautiful tawny pupils. Newlyn had granted him his own house in Gil'ead, a medium-sized dwelling built from wood and stone. It sat within the walls of the fort, which had been expanded to encompass much of the outlying town. With gold that they had scavenged from Gil'ead's stores, they had been able to set up an early infrastructure, attracting businessmen and shopkeepers to live in the area. The regional armies were increased, and according to Newlyn, a host of three thousand could be raised, not counting the other houses and, of course, House Pike, which was now the supreme authority in the North.

Above Roran's bed, the sigil of House Pike hung. It was a looming reminder of his duty, a reminder of what he had to protect. He turned towards Katrina and kissed her greedily, his lust for her growing each time their lips parted. Ever since he returned he had been with her constantly, taking part of her and holding her, her body nearly fully recovered from their shared ordeal. It seemed strange- That so much had changed. How long had it been? They were nearing winter's climax, with snow storms battering them and heavy winds stalling their fast progress. Roran pulled the tan sheets from Katrina's body, and she gasped as he joined with her. His brown hair, now streaked with black, bounced against his forehead as he moved, and Katrina gazed up at him, her hands groping at his shoulders. As he stared at her, he remembered the woman from his dream, the woman that had given him his power.

_The Triumvirate Kings. _

He pushed the thought away, focused instead on Katrina, who moaned softly.

_Golhlobor. _

He shut his eyes as he finished, Katrina shuddering underneath him. His face was moist with sweat, and he sat there, on top of her, raising his head to the bleak ceiling of their bedroom.

"What's wrong?" Katrina asked, rising from beneath him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back down to their bed, her soft skin brushing against his cheek.

"That dream. The . . . The woman."

"She saved you." Katrina said softly, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"She saved you, and by doing so, saved me as well."

"But why, Katrina?" Roran mumbled.

"There was so much death . . . I . . . I _died, _Katrina. She brought me back. But for what?" Roran frowned, and Katrina pushed his hair away from his eyes.

"All that matters is that you're here, and that you're alive." She grinned at him, and he smiled back, weakly.

There was a shattering knock on the door. Roran swore and reluctantly rose from his bed, getting dressed in his new clothing : A black leather vest with the sigil of House Pike at the breast, combined with a white shirt with long sleeves. Ebony trousers covered his legs and he laced up fine boots that traveled halfway to his knees. Finally, he covered his body with a large fur cloak, clasped at the breast with a skull-pin, and pulled the hood over his head. He turned towards Katrina, who smiled sadly.

"I'll be back soon. It's probably nothing." He said, reassuring her. Katrina nodded, and Roran left their bedroom. A dying fire sputtered as Roran walked past the fireplace, a thing of fine stone, with an iron bar gate. Beside the fireplace a table was found, two seats devoid of bodies standing proudly at either side. A window was found opposite the table, and Roran frowned as he saw it was somewhat obscured by frost. Even this far south in the North, winters were harsh; they had just taken time to develop.

Roran opened his front door and was greeted with a Pike lieutenant, a middle-aged man dressed similarly to Roran. Behind the man, Gil'ead was coming to life, slowly. People drowsily left their homes, and older children threw snowballs as the stuff accumulated on the ground. Men leaned on corners of buildings, smoking from smooth-wood pipes as their sons collected wood. Horses nickered, laboring as merchants wheeled through, their carriages turning up dirt and snow.

"Lord Newlyn Pike has required an audience with you, Captain." The man said, motioning Roran to the outside world. Roran moved from his doorway, pulling his hood closer around his face as a gust of wind blew by, his cloak billowing behind his feet. Two horses waited for them, and the lieutenant climbed onto his, Roran doing the same. They rode through the streets, snow falling softly around them as people cleared from their way.

"What does he need?" Roran asked, riding up to the lieutenant's left.

"There is news from the west." The man looked about uneasily as people moved below him.

"This is not the place to speak of these things."

Roran nodded, remaining silent until the rode up to the castle of Gil'ead. While the province retained the name, the castle itself had been renamed to _Deligan's Fist, _after Newlyn's father. The gates opened to them as they approached, and Roran rode through, dismounting with the lieutenant, and entering the castle. The snow picked up as they rushed inside, instantly warmed as a heavy door closed behind them. The man lead him through darkened halls, their wet boots squeaking on stone, each slab inscribed with runes. Finally, they came to a large set of doors reinforced with stone, guarded by two soldiers wearing full-helms and crossed lances. The men opened the doors, and Roran strode through, and saw Newlyn as he sat on his throne.

Newlyn was a Pike, but did not possess magic. Regardless, he was still a scary sight. He was large, with long hair and green eyes, darker than a bubbling forest pool in the height of summer. He sat heavily in his chair, a large cape sagging around his shoulders while his hand held onto the hilt of a savage-looking greatsword. His left hand, which was free, curled around the armrests of his seat, and Newlyn smiled as he regarded Roran.

"Ah, Magebane." Newlyn greeted, and Roran bowed.

"My Lord." He said, respectfully. Newlyn's eyes narrowed on the lieutenant.

"That will be all, Grayphen."

Grayphen left without a word.

"You have proven yourself time and time again, Roran. Not only in battle, but also with the construction work that has been done here. I've come to trust you more than some of my higher-ranking men." Newlyn said, rising. He carried his sword with him, the large blade waving in the air as he lifted it before his face, running a hand down the pale metal.

"Your new . . . ability also makes you very valuable. An assets that will come as a surprise to our enemies." He said, and Roran followed him with his brown eyes, Newlyn pacing before him.

"I was never a man for grand words, Roran. But I have decided to adopt you."

Roran was shocked.

"My Lord?" He choked.

"You have the skill to be great. But not the connections. In adopting you, I give you the rights you need to rise as high as you deserve to be. You will retain your new surname, of course. It fits you. But as you are now under my wing-"

Newlyn approached Roran, sword gripped in both of his hands.

"Kneel, Magebane."

Roran knelt.

"You will defend the realm, with arms and might and intellect, protecting her and her children from those that would do us harm. You will be Lord of the destroyed area of Caravhall, and you shall be a new House, a cadet branch of my own, a lordling."

Newlyn tapped Roran softly on the forehead.

"Rise, Roran of House _Magebane." _

Roran rose, numb with shock.

"My Lord . . . I cannot thank you enough . . ." He stammered. Newlyn's face sagged slightly as he sighed heavily.

"Not all is well. I have done this, Roran, because war will soon reach us. Sooner than I expected. Word has reached us that Morzan of the Forsworn has roused the Empire's strength, and has begun his march to reclaim the North."

"_Morzan?" _

"An ancient Evil. The Forsworn are former Riders, who rebelled and ousted the Langfelds over a hundred years ago. He lives, fueled by foul magic."

"I want you to lead one thousand men to battle, Roran. To join the rest of House Pike and her allies to defeat this foe. You will be joined by another Pike, Eleor Pike, who will lead an additional one thousand and twenty."

Roran was silent.

"With all of the Northern powers combined, we will be a formidable force. Alas, we will face hardened men, Southlings and Westermen, eastermen as well. Houses loyal to the Empire."

"I do not have a choice, do I?" Roran said quietly.

"No, Roran. You do not."

Decades passed in silence, the two men standing very still. Finally, Roran spoke.

"I will do it. I will lead a portion of your army against this Morzan."

"You do me great honor, Lord Magebane."

Roran stiffened.

_I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this for Katrina. _


	55. Chapter 46

"THE assassin belonged to one of the merchant guilds headed by the Karvels. Our authorities have seized key family members, and their assets will be taken by the State. Their buildings, ships, factories and trade rights will be divided among the bidding Guilds."

A dwarf constable handed Nasuada an unfurled scroll, and she nodded politely, unable to read the markings found on the parchment. She sat at a long table, various high dwarf families sitting either side of her, continuing down on the left and right, until the occupied seats lead to the King. The dwarf was huge, muscular and fearsome, but his black eyes shined with what could only be described as harsh kindness. Nasuada settled in her chair as the various dwarf family heads spoke among themselves, over a plate of freshly steamed greens and select slices of cave-pig. She had learned the names of some of the dwarves who sat with her. The most prominent among them were the Gohns, Yezziks, and Nystes. It was Vermal Nyste who spoke now. He had smooth white skin and blonde hair, tied into a long knot behind his handsome face. He wore a red cape that hung loosely around his sculpted shoulders, revealing his collarbones as a white tunic lazily sagged around his frame.

"I am dreadfully sorry that you had to witness such horrors, Nasuada." Vermal said, compassion in his voice. Several of the dwarves muttered agreement, and Vermal raised his cup.

"I purpose a toast. To grant Nasuada, and this ground-breaking alliance, long life and prosperity." Vermal raised his cup.

"_Atana!" _He cried.

"Atana!" The rest of the dwarves sounded, lifting their glasses. Nasuada bowed her head respectfully as the sound of cups rekindling their touch with stone tables was heard. Vermal flashed Nasuada a handsome smile.

"It is good your warrior was there, or else our grand King would lie dead. And nothing could be worse in these trying times." Vermal said, looking away. The King could not speak Ulnar, but he nodded anyway. It was one of the Gohns who spoke next. Yolar Gohns was an old dwarf with a graybeard that rose from his chin and was wrapped around his forehead, a snaking and dreadlocked strand, thick and almost humorous. He was fat, but Nasuada could tell that in his youth, he might have been a great warrior.

"We have already overviewed your terms," He said, licking his lips. A Yezzik spoke up next.

"They are very agreeable."

_Of course they are, _Nasuada thought. Orrin had offered them free-trade within all of his land, untaxed and unopposed. Should they win the war, human traders would have to work through dwarf guilds, which would give dwarves complete control of the market. They were foolish terms, but it was not Nasuada's place to criticize Orrin.

"I am glad they are to your liking, my lords." Nasuada said, smiling.

Kermal lifted his pointed chin.

"But there is something else. Something that I purposed."

"Nasuada held her breath.

"We Nyste are among the greatest of the merchant families. Second only to the Royal House, of course. In fact, should anything happen to the King and his son, Prince Orik, our family would be the one to which the crown would pass. Namely, I would be King." Kermal informed. He paused, took a sip of wine, and continued.

"In such an event that they should die, this alliance needs to be tied not only with ink, but with blood. My sister, Naise Nyste, is of fitting age and station to be married to your Orrin. In our custom, it is often that various agreements, even those pertaining to sales or joint-stock account alliances, are sealed with marriage."

_Orrin won't like this. But what choice do we have? We need their support. _

"I am Orrin's voice, I am his eyes. I am his mind. Do not think of me as simply his stand-in, think of me as His Grace himself. I agree to these . . . adapted terms." She bowed her head in agreement.

"I am glad we could reach a civil conclusion, Orrin." Kermal joked, and a light gust of laughter passed over them. A long scroll was brought up before the dwarf King, and after a shrill dwarf, who was literally a _dwarf_, read off the contents in their strange tongue. After nearly fifteen minutes, the dwarf King scrawled his signature onto the paper. There was a silent clapping and the slight clang of cups in approval, as the High Lords of the dwarves imagined all of the gold they would make. Nasuada closed her eyes, praying.

_It is all done. Orrin, please do not make a fool of things. We've done so much, gone so far. We cannot allow ourselves to fall due to your follies. _

Nasuada opened her eyes, greeted by a young dwarf who presented his hand.

"May I escort you to your carriage, my Lady?" He asked. Nasuada gave him a smile.

"That would be nice, thank you." She said.

"HIS NAME is Murtagh."

Vermal watched as Tronjhem slid past, the sound of their six-legged _Naoli_ pulled them forward. Dwarves went about their business, unaware of what was happening right before their eyes.

Vermal peeled his gaze from the window of his carriage, and looked at a fellow dwarf who sat opposite to him, nearly sinking in the carriage's over-zealous amount of pillows and cushions.

"Murtagh? I see."

"Do you want him killed?"

Vermal pursed his lips.

"No, not yet. I want him watched. Find out everything you can about him. Does he have a family name?"

"Not that we have found so far, _Tenar." _

"Keep searching. I don't care if you have to rip apart every library in the land, you will find out what this boy is. He is too skilled to be a simple guard. Something about his blood reeks of nobility."

He looked at the dwarf, who had black hair and a chubby face.

"What is your name?"

"Olyvar Dagger."

Vermal laughed softly as their carriage rocked, traffic choking the streets.

"You secondsons pick strange names for yourselves."

"Our surname indicates our trade, _Tenar." _

Vermal inspected his nails.

"Most secondsons don't use High Dwarib honorifics."

Olyvar smiled, revealing a sheet of dusky yellow teeth.

"I was tutored before I joined the Guild."

Assassin Guilds. They had been outlawed five hundred years ago, but nearly every major Family funded one. The Nyste had several, in fact. But it was a general rule of thumb to never employ your own Assassin Guild to carry out a killing, so most families ended up hiring Assassin's from other families, some of which are actually employed by their enemies. Like most dwarib things, it was an overly-complex system, a large book of taboos and foolish traditions holding them back in the social mire of keeping appearances.

_Damn that treaty. _

Kermal frowned. The failed Assassination had at least ridded him of another competitor, but it is a pale victory, as opposed to being Gun-nam Gun-la.

_To think that we dwarves ally ourselves to humans . . . _

Still, in a way, it was good the killing failed. He had more time to prepare, more time to plan. His sister would marry the Human King, and he knew that the action would be prosperous for him. It would take time, years, in fact. But in the end _he _would rule, and cut off all outside affairs in Alagaesia, and focus on the New World they had discovered decades ago. Colonization was a slow process, but he would increase the focus, enthrall the dwarib into a renewed vigor. The entire world was at their fingertips . . . and the dwarib were content to stagnate underground.

"Do not fail me." Vermal said to Olyvar as he finished his musings. Olyvar gave him a sly smile.

"Failure is not possible. Not for _Olyvar Dagger." _

Vermal gave Olyvar a patient smile.

"We shall see."


	56. Chapter 47

Eragon sat on a sandy bank, a small stream coursing before him. He watched as the water flowed, snaking around the plains that surrounded them. It was early morning, and he had been first to rise. Saphira flew above the air, hunting. Her thoughts were closed to him, as she was locked in concentration, but whenever she was around, he could feel the waves of sorrow passing over him.

Garrow.

Eragon shut his eyes as tears began to form. He swore at himself, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his clothing. He looked at the water again, red-eyed and sniffling, hating himself all the while.

"We're going to be leaving soon." Arya said. Eragon jolted, he had not even heard her coming behind him. She moved into his peripheral vision, and sat down, a few feet away from him. He turned his head at her as she plucked a small pebble from the sand, brushed it off, and tossed it into the stream with a silent _plop. _Her hair was tied behind her head, a long black-and-white ponytail dangling all the way to the bottom of her neck. Her jawline was sharp, as if it had been cut from stone. As she spoke, her jaws tightened, and Eragon watched as muscled worked underneath pale skin, while three black scars crawled over her face.

"I am sorry about your father. If I had known-"

"He wasn't my father. I used to call him Uncle when I was younger. He . . . he never liked that, though." Eragon said softly, and he broke down, sobbing silently, covering his face from Arya's eyes. He felt her linger there for a moment, before hearing her soft footsteps as she left him alone.

_Garrow. _

Guilt washed over him. Roran . . . Roran would blame him. And why shouldn't he? If he had only left the egg alone . . . none of this would happen. He would still be home, happy and content. Garrow would be alive, and the cares of the royal houses in the land would not bother him. He was not a king, a prince, or a noble. He was out of place in this war, this story of bloodshed. Eragon opened his palm, looking at the swirling scar that was raised a few inches above the rest of his skin.

_A Rider. _

But he wasn't, not truly. Saphira was not large enough to even _mount, _and he was unskilled. He only knew two spells, and during the fight with the Ra'zac, Arya had saved him from calamity more than once, annoyance written on her face. His thoughts drifted towards the Elf girl, and he hated himself again.

_She despises weakness. And that is all she saw when she was with me. _

During the battle, she had only protected him because he was the Last Rider, and therefore precious to their entire effort. Eragon couldn't see why the egg hadn't hatched for _her _instead.

"Boy," Brom's gruff way of speaking invaded Eragon's ears. He turned, and nearly jumped back into the water, groping to find a blade that wasn't belted to his waist. The young man before him gave a quizzical look, and then rolled his eyes.

"Don't tell me you are this foolish." Brom said, anger brimming in his tone. Eragon eased down, stepping onto mushy sand.

"Your beard . . ." Eragon stammered.

"Aye. I shaved it. To look presentable. It's been some time since I've seen a King."

Brom had literally cut every hair from his lower face, and he looked no more than three years elder from Eragon. His shoulder was wrapped in clothing, and his familiar sword hung heavily from his back, but he looked like an entirely different man. Brom walked close to where Eragon stood, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"No one deserves to go through what you did, boy. But you cannot allow yourself to fester in grief. Now isn't the time." Brom said softly. Eragon nodded, looking past Brom, and at their camp, where Aerion put out the fire while Arya watched, her eyes narrowed dust fell onto the flames.

"Why did it choose me?" Eragon said suddenly, looking away as Arya's sharp eyes caught his.

"The egg. Why was . . . why did it hatch for me?" He added, his hands groping for more articulate wording.

"Eggs do not choose who they hatch for. To tell you the truth, I do not know, Eragon. It is believed that Eggs hatch for beings that have the same temperament as their future Dragons. It is possible that you and Saphira have the same personality."

Eragon smiled at the thought of having the same persona as his flying companion.

He had another question, one that was much harder.

"_Why do . . . why did that thing keep calling you Caomhim?" _He blurted, watching as Brom's eyes went wide. The man straightened suddenly, and turned away from Eragon.

"It is my old name. From another time."

Eragon was not satisfied.

"But why did it know your name?" He pursued.

"Another time, Eragon." Brom said sternly, and Eragon fell silent.

Saphira regrouped with them as they shouldered their packs, what little supplies they could scavenge from the dead. What were formally fifteen was now only three. They had all taken part in burying the dead, and Aerion was aghast when he found some bodies were missing.

"The being I fought is known as a Shade. It contained numerous spirits, and when its current vessel died, the spirits within jumped from the burning body, and entered those of your companions."

Aerion had cursed magic, and continued digging.

_What's wrong? _Saphira asked as she alighted onto the ground. She was up to Eragon's forearm now, a little larger than some of the wild packs of massive dogs they had seen roaming the plain lands.

_Brom. He's hiding something from me. From us. Something that involves that creature. It knows Brom's name, his real name, apparently. Caomhim. _

Eragon sensed question from Saphira.

_Caomhim? Why would Brom lie to us? What does he have to hide?_

Eragon wondered how many secrets a being that lived as long as Brom had could have. How many dark crimes, how many silent misdeeds that went unnoticed for centuries, save for the lingering gazes of the gods.

_I don't know Saphira. _

They descended downwards a steep hill, winds rushing past them, causing the slight and tall grass to tickle them as they walked. Ahead, large mountains teased in the distance, standing over a long and flat land, covered by gray clouds that curled as they moved across the heavens. A few trees were found, scattered about, with red leaves that were pulled from thin branches, sending the wayward leaves off into the tall yellow weed.

"We are nearing the lands of House Yorbar. Also, we are close to the crossroads of the world." Aerion said softly as wind mussed with his hair. He put his hand on the pommel of his sword as he spoke, smiling as he locked eyes on the mountains before them.

"House Yorbar has blood tracing back to the old world. They descend from the First Walkers, who marched down South fleeing the Ghost Men. They found an overland Dwarven Kingdom called Tal-Mok, which was at war with the Mountain Kings and there above-ground settlements. These First Walkers fought with the Tal-Mok, while the Mountain Kings attacked from their rear. In a short while, the great Tal-Mok Empire came to an end, with the First Walker warlord Anteelys marrying the disposed Dwarf ruler's daughter, Ran'mek. The current rulers of House Yorbar have overland dwarf blood, and you'll find that the people, some of them, have overland dwarf names and customs. A queer folk." Aerion climbed down the hill, and the rest of his party followed.

They walked for hours, and often Aerion would be the one requesting rest, as Brom and Arya had near-limitless energy when not fighting or using magic. The mountains grew larger and larger until they eclipsed the sun, jagged and sharp and dangerous, Foreboding monsters that signaled the end of the current world. Hour by hour, the land darkened as they inched around the mountains. A howl shrieked in the growing night, and Eragon tensed.

"What was that?" He said, gripping his sword.

"Shadow lions. Be careful. By the sound, they seem far off, but remain wary . . . a Shadow lion would not think twice to attack us." He warned.

They all continued on edge, Saphira raising her snout into the air, smelling for the beasts. In the end, the creatures never bothered them, and they all gradually relaxed. In time, they came around the bend of the mountain, walking over fields that slightly became less rugged and more cultivated. They passed a vacant home, well built with a straw roof that was slightly sagging into the brick walls. A fenced in area containing nothing jutted from brown and green ground, while a sentry fire glowed in the distance.

"We're in the outskirts of House Yorbar's holdings. They command a large plot of land, and we are near the city of Olan, which is found outside of the gates of the mountain kingdoms. The two people live in close proximity to each other, but the capital of Tronjheim was never open to the Yorbars. You'll find the city filled with Varden supporters, small houses who fled their lands to join their strength here. With the North conquered, it will be a small thing to march back upwards, and catch the Empire unawares." Aerion proclaimed confidently.

Two horsemen rode up to them, picking up dust in the dwindling light of the red sun. Above pointed-helms, flags waved, but too quickly for Eragon to make out the sigil. They circled the small party, until finally one of them spoke.

"_Denaise ettaise vouenais?" _One of the guards said. Eragon, Brom, Arya, and Aerion exchanged glances. Aerion coughed, speaking up as dust rose from the hooves of the horses.

"Ulnar? Do you speak Ulnar?" He asked, exaggerating each word.

"Who are you, and what is your business?" A second voice asked, thickly accented.

"We are allies. Sent from Mphampir Pike, your friend in the North. We are a party sent by his decree to The Varden's camps. Then, we are to see this boy," Aerion pointed at Eragon, "To elf lands. He is a _rider." _

The man on the horse laughed softly. "I see no drag-"

At that moment, Saphira dived from the sky, and the man's horse reared, nearly causing the man to fall from his steed. Disheveled, he glared at Saphira, who curled around Eragon's waist, her wings flattening against her beck.

"I see," He said.

"We were told of a company coming from the North. But we were warned to watch for fifteen on the main road, mounted, not three walkers. Regardless, we shall lead you to _Olan." _

Eragon noticed the second rider glaring at Arya. She did as well, and looked at him defensively. The second rider raised his helmet and grimaced.

"_De pennion zhou favion lamesh ein Elvanfan." _The second guard spat. The first one shrugged at his statement, and then turned to them.

"Follow us. We will ride slow, until we reach the first outpost. From there, you will be given horses, and may continue into the city, and meet with our leader, Lord Yul'tish Yorbar."

(A/N): I have a huge amount of notes detailing the various languages and cultures of the races, some of which haven't been touched yet. Would you guys be interested if I posted that as a chapter? Just wondering. I wanted to ask first, because I don't want to bore you guys with the history connected with the story. Basically I'll post it if three people say they want it. I ask because it is HUGE, like, 5k words. I mean, I THINK it's interesting, but of course I made it up so yeah . . . lol. Anyway, we hit 16k today. This story is ALMOST finished, which means Eldest is coming up next. I'm not sure if I'll keep the story going in this thread or if I'll make another one. Anyway, I have a lot of ideas for Eldest. In some ways, it will be more faithful to the old books in terms of Oromis training Eragon and so forth, but in many ways it will be VERY different. Eldest will feature more Murtagh, more Morzan, more Brom, more Herzig, (More dark elves, yay) More Solembum (He's not dead, he's gonna have a chapter here soon,) more Arya, more Evander backstory, and of course resident bad-a** Killian and his jerk son Orrin. Galby will have a more pronounced role as well, and we will also slowly discover what exactly Golhlobor is. I'll answer this question right now:

GOLHLOBOR IS NOT REPLACING GALBY AS THE BADDY. Galbatorix, is *somewhat* of a bad guy. I mean, he killed thousands of people and riders in what could be said as a justified war. But as we see with Killian, he hurt a bunch of people. But he isn't *evil*. Wars are rarely fought between good and evil. There are heroes on both sides, and Galbatorix _wants _to be a good King. Anyway, I like stories with no clear baddies. I created Golhlobor becaaauuuuse

Makes the lore richer

Kind of makes the story seem more grounded

Yolo

Golhlobor IS your no questions asked bad guy. He's evil as sin. He's super duper evil. I have stuff on him and the Eldeena in the notes as well. Anyway , hope you enjoy the chapter. Its kinda low on action and dialogue but hey, you gotta write how people GET places. Things will pick up, main characters will start dying, and fire will fall from the heavens really soon. Just you wait.


	57. Chapter 48

The two mages Killian had insisted on sending with Orrin never shut up. He put his hand over his face as he leaned out of the open window of the carriage, annoyed at their constant bickering. If they weren't bickering about magic, they were bickering about science. If they weren't bickering about science, they were bickering about history. If they weren't bickering about history, they fought over religion. The Twins, as they were called, were the most annoying travel companions Orrin had ever endured. Besides them, within the carriage two _Dusk Riders _sat with Orrin, long hair sprouting from partially shaved heads. They had black skin, slanted eyes, and possessed strong and square jaws. Their cloaks were pinned to the shoulder, and underneath the cloth they wore fish-netted tunics, revealing hard bodies trained from youth onwards.

"No, it is because the words _dwarib _and dwarf are similar!" The older-faced twin exclaimed. The younger one spoke next, his voice sounding amused and patient.

"My friend, you are mistaken. It is because many of the _dwarib _had a genetic predisposition to literal _dwarfism. _As such, many of these literal dwarf outcasts were sent to trade overland, resulting in their people, of whom are average height, to be called _dwarves." _ The old one guffawed, tears falling from his eyes. Orrin frowned and turned his attention away from the boring yellow-colored grass of the fields.

"What is it?" He asked, barely interested.

"Ah, nothing truly King Orrin. It seems that my friend and I have been speaking of semantics this entire time."

"A stupid argument." Orrin said quickly, and the younger mage grinned.

"A _very _stupid argument, Your Grace." He said, bowing his head. The older one agreed.

"We are jesters, it seems. Would you like to see a funny trick, Orrin?" He said. Orinn shrugged.

"Sure," He said, exhaling loudly as the crown he wore sat heavily on his head.

"Let's do the one with the manticore." The older Twin said to his friend.

"No, no. That one is _scary, _not funny."

"Of course, you're right, my faithful companion."

"The one with the flying pig then?"

"We've done that one for ages. Something new."

"As leader, I decree we shall do the trick with the string and water."

"What do you mean _leader?" _

Orrin closed his eyes, tuning out the Twins as he reflected on the message they had received.

_I am to marry a dwarf._

He was assured that she was very beautiful, and of normal human height. Orrin supposed aside from six fingers and one-color eyes with no pupils, she could be. He knew dwarven women were all full-figured, and he mused that his wedding night would be interesting, to say the least. Still, fathering a half-dwarf son disgusted him somewhat, but he guessed it couldn't be helped. Besides, if he understood the contents of the letter from Nasuada correctly, should the current King and Prince die, he would be king of the dwarven lands. The map that Killian had resurfaced in his mind.

_Father. _

His plan was ambitious, but was it wise? Should they be discovered, the wroth of the _Dwarib _would be something very hard to contend with. He hoped Killian knew what he was doing. The masked appearance of his father floated around in his mind. He had only seen Killian without his mask once, and his father had beaten him brutally for it. The man was intelligent, but slightly deranged and prone to violence.

_What could have happened to him, to cause the man such madness?  
_

No doubt every waking moment filled Killian with pain. Orrin remembered hearing his father screaming in the night, and he remembered seeing blood drip from the sides of Killian's mask. His wounds still bled, despite how many years had passed since they were gifted to him. There were other things in the letter that annoyed Orrin as well. The damnable Murtagh had saved the King. If the bastard had just kept still, there was a possibility that the treaty would still have been signed, and Orrin would have been that closer to becoming King to two nations. But of course, the short-sighted baboon had made himself a hero.

_I'm the KING. I should be hero. _

"We're approaching the gates, My Grace."

Orrin opened his eyes to that, and leaned outside the carriage window.

Olan was a strange city. Thick wood walls reinforced with rune-ridden stone surrounded the large metropolis, cathedral like buildings rising over the dully colored settlements, transepts darkened by the shadow of the massive mountains that loomed above them. Spires rose like raised spears, jutting and sharp as they seemed to pierce the shadowy beasts that rose as high as the ceiling of the earth. Horns signaled their arrival, accompanied by strange yelping from some shrill voice, up high in one of the large watchtowers.

"_Ah, _the famous yellers of Atmon." The older mage said wistfully.

"_Atmon?" _Orrin asked.

"Atmon. Long ago, these lands were held by overland dwarves, a sub-sect of _dwarib _that separated from the main branch underground, seeking religious freedom. They worshipped a being called _Tol'mak, _god of the harvest. When they were absorbed by the First Walkers and became a precursor to the people you will see today, they mixed the Tol'mak with the human shaman Alma. Thousands of years later, the personality of Atman is created, a primordial Yobar who defended the land from darkness. The religious cult worships him with great fervor, and their missionaries attempt to convert as many beings as they can." The older Twin finished with a smirk.

"They will expect you to give Atman an offering."

"As long as it guarantees their loyalty."

"It will, my King. It will."

They passed through the gates without incident, their carriage the lead, as hundreds of carts and carriages filed behind them. Orrin had taken a large portion of his force with him from Surda, and thankfully, most survived the trip. The city of Olan buzzed around them. People crowded the streets, while guards wearing silver helms fashioned in the heads of goats kept thousands of people at bay, all of them cheering in strange tongues.

"They herald your arrival, Your Grace." The young Twin said. Orrin waved his hand out of the carriage, to the result of an even higher fervor as the masses pressed against the goat-guards. The carriage stopped, and the doors opened. Trumpets played as Orrin was guided out by his Dusk Riders, and was greeted by a castle, of which was the largest Orrin had ever seen. Six large towers curved upwards into the dark sky like horns on a devil, while the main gate was painted red, contrasting with the black metal and stone around it. Dozens of stairs, each one about a foot in length across, led upwards to the gate, and each step was joined with a stone sentinel. At the bottom of the fleet of steps, Lord Yobar stood, waiting for Orrin. His hair was light blue in color, with tanned skin and eyes covered by a purple veil. Strands of cloth were tied to each of his fingers, and when he moved them, the strands waved in the wind softly as bells hummed, dangling off of his flared cuffs. Around them, the people massed, cheering Orrin as he was escorted to the Lord of Olan. Once he approached, Lord Yorbar bowed, and then spoke.

"Orrin, My King. It is a fine thing to finally meet you." He said softly. His voice was tinged with an accent, a way of speaking that he possessed that curled his l's and drew out the last vowel of every word he uttered.

"And you as well, Lord Yorbar."

The Lord smiled, his lips painted white, standing out from his lightly browned skin.

"Everything is falling into place. The treaty has been signed, and the Rider arrived shortly before you have. If you would follow me, I will introduce you to him. Your men and belongings will be put with the various other camps within my lands."

Yorbar's smile grew larger.

"King Orrin, we nearly have a strength of 200,000. Many Elves have come to join us, in addition to lesser human houses, sellswords, and armies of fortune. My stores will hold, but we must march quickly, or I fear that our armies will starve before their conquest."

The Lord giggled into his sleeve, and as he turned and slowly walked up the stairs, Orrin followed, tasting victory on his tongue, mixing in with the sweet smells drifting from Lord Yorbar, pungent and beautiful.

(A/N): So I was editing previous chapters and realized that I had asked if you guys wanted to see my Original Work and I had forgotten to post it in a chapter . . . SO HERE IT IS! As you know it's called Primary Bloodline, and it's on amazon, the link is located on my profile. Also I realized I didn't allow all regions access, so I have done that so everyone can read it (or at least preview it). Anyway, here it is.

CHAPTER ONE: THE YOUTH

He was the middle child, with two brothers ahead of him, and three behind. As such he inherited nothing, the vast wealth that his father accumulated went to his eldest siblings, and the love that his mother doled out found themselves at the feet of his sisters and younger brothers. He was of seventeen years of age, with dark brown hair that traveled to the point of his chin. He was almost attractive, a sagging left eye and a crooked mouth marring his features, combined with a knotted scar that ran from the corner of his smile to the base of his ear, the result of a surgeon attempting to remove an unsightly birthmark. His siblings called him _Black Sina, _due to the fact he inherited his Italian mother's coloring as opposed to the pale complexioned, blue eyed, and blonde haired look of his father. He bore the name well, however, and soon began to answer to the name as if it was his by birth.

"Isidor, bow your head," Black Sina's mother ordered in a hushed tone as Black's father was carried into the room, covered by a large white cloth. The blood from the wounds that murdered him had been cleaned from his body, but Isidor could still picture his father's punctured flesh underneath the sheet. His mother whimpered at the sight, and he heard a gasp from his sisters. It could have been Annalis or Nuna- They were both twins, two years his junior, and acted exactly the same, sharing their personality just as well as they shared their blonde hair, white skin, and wide green eyes. They were in an old wooden home, large and grim, with dimly lit candles that flickered every time someone moved. Isidor stood with his back turned to the seated crowd, his family standing with him. His father's body was carried to a large stone altar, where a russet casket waited patiently. An old man stood over the altar, his hooked nose cruel looking and his saggy chin lazily drooping from his face. A cross swung from a golden chain that hugged his fleshly neck, and a white head bowed in thanks as Black's father was gently lowered into the casket. One of the men carrying the body hastily re-covered the sheet when one corner partially revealed the dead man's ruined face.

"We are gathered here today to remember a great man, taken from us to join our Lord in Heaven." The priest began, touching his cross as he spoke.

"Andolf Sina; born of Jorg Sina and Mariann. He lived well, grew to be large and strong. He was wise, and that wisdom was reflected in the success of his merchant trade. Fleets of ships belonged to him, each one scouring the earth for treasures and necessities that we all enjoy." The priest coughed, and Black winced at the sound of phlegm rising in the old man's throat.

"He is survived by his wife, Elosia", the priest paused to allow Black's mother to step forward. She was beautiful, in her dark mourning gown that matched her hair and eyes. Light olive skin hugged her features, fine lips and almond eyes, old age having no effect on her appearance. As Isidor watched her, he saw that her shoulders sagged. He had never seen his mother so defeated.

"His eldest son: Johann." A large man in his middle thirties joined Isidor's mother. He was exceptionally handsome, brilliant yellow hair curved around his head like a crown and his face was strong and hard, like pale stone. Blue eyes beamed from their sockets as he stood proud and tall before his dead father. Elosia took his hand firmly.

"Andolf's second son: Viveka." A younger man took his place to the right of Elosia. He bore dusky blonde hair with streaks of black running through it that tickled his taught cheeks. Hauntingly green eyes stared ahead, and he crossed his hands behind his back as he stood, taller than his mother and as tall as his eldest brother. Isidor barely knew Johann, and he knew Viveka even less. He was a mysterious man, and in the few occasions he was around, Isidor felt uncomfortable in his presence.

"Andolf's middle son: Isidor." The priest said. Isidor didn't move, until he was nudged by one of his sisters. He had been expecting the priest to say _Black Sina. _Isidor walked to where half his family stood, hesitating a moment before choosing to stand next to Johann. The man was much taller than him and stronger too. Isidor knew he looked weak by comparison. Johann made no move to greet him, ignoring Black Sina completely. Isidor wasn't surprised, among his brothers and sisters; he didn't look related to him at all, with hair so dark and eyes so solemn. His scar itched.

There was a cough behind them as Isidor's younger siblings were called. His three brothers; Sigmund: who was fifteen, and while lighter than Isidor, looked the most like him. He took his place by Viveka. The next two, Lucas and Romy, fourteen and twelve, respectively; each of them looking like a budding Johann. Isidor's sisters came next, Nuna and Annalis, wearing matching black dresses. The audience behind them gasped as they moved, beautiful and elegant. The priest named them, and then they took their place by Sigmund. Men were summoned, six of them, and took hold of the casket and lead it into the outside elements. Black and his family followed, and behind them, the seated attendees. They were lead through a gray graveyard, tomb stones of varying sizes and minerals neatly organized into rows went on for what seemed forever across hilly fields.

As they walked rain began to fall, quietly and delicately. Black heard Annalis begin to cry, and Elosia huddled against her, her own eyes wet as well.

"The land cries with us," She said as they walked, Annalis softly weeping. The rain marred the white sheet covering Black's father, wet drops causing watery depressions on the surface of the fabric. They made their way slowly, however, following their father in the casket as the priest led them all. The sun was obscured by rolling ashen clouds that seemed to hang closer to the earth than before. Black tripped on a small tombstone and nearly fell, Causing Lucas to erupt in a very inappropriate fit of laughter. His other siblings ignored him, their green and blue eyes focused on some interesting unseen thing in the distance. The priest finally stopped near a large rectangular hole that looked to be about ten feet deep. Isidor and his family stood around the edge of their father's future home, each of them looking down into the murky pit. Rain water splashed as it fell heavier. The casket carriers placed a wooden ramp at the mouth of the pit, and then by means of rope, gingerly slid Black's father down into the burrow. The ramp was then slowly retrieved, and the men retreated back into the wake house. It was strange seeing his father like this. A once proud man now trapped in dirt. They had left the casket open, a compromise of sorts.

Elosia said that Andolf wanted to be cremated, but she found the process _ghastly, _and decided that Andolf would appreciate being buried into the ground, without covering. There had been no refusing her, a newly widowed woman, so here they were, watching as the white sheet that covered Andolf's horribly mutilated body was turned into a sodden blanket.

"Life for Andolf is over, but only here, on this earth. Soon, he will join our Lord Savior, who has taken him." The Priest nodded again, and out of nowhere the casket men reappeared, each of them pushing a wheel barrow filled with dirt. It took them nearly forty five minutes to finally cover the grave completely. After which the Priest looked at Flosia apologetically.

"I-I'm sorry, but we've had trouble with the stone…" He began, but she cut him off viciously.

"Just get us out of this horrid weather." She barked in a hushed tone. The Priest raised his hands in apology and then led the procession to the home again, passing over the same hills, the same tombs, but with a torrent of rain coming down on them. At the home carriages waited for the guests, and they gave their condolences before leaving. Johann was amongst them all, crying with some, laughing with another, and looking solemn with the last. Elosia was there too, crying and hugging and thanking, stunning throughout it all. Black noticed men fawn over her and laughed to himself as their wives watched with tight-set jaws.

Viveka found himself within the crowd, but he did not have the drawing power that Elosia and Johann did. He was handsome, but he bore a cruel face, and his strange hair made him look otherworldly. He simply nodded when people approached him, never smiled like Johann or cried like Elosia. Black found himself on the outskirts of the leaving throng, and people politely gave him condolences after commenting on Nuna's (Or was it Annalis?) beauty, or commending Lucas and Romy for growing so strong and handsome. Sigmund was complimented as well, sharing Black's soft but handsome features, save for the saggy eye and the scar and the raven dark hair. When people approached Black he felt them looking at his flaws, but he smiled with the best of them. His mouth twitched when they stopped at their condolences, and then moved on to the better siblings, giving them praise for their looks and clothing. They all wore black, but Isidor was wearing plain garments, as befit a mourner. But his siblings had chosen their best clothes, or had bought new dressings for the occasion. They were all _Black Sinas _today, but somehow, Isidor remained as the darkest of them all. The people left, finally, leaving only Black and his family in the main hall. The priest rubbed his hands together and smiled at them.

"Come," He said warmly. Johann followed first, and with him Viveka, and their mother. As the youngest siblings, Isidor and the others were told to say in the main hall, their mother and eldest brothers disappearing into the hallways of the building.

"They're dividing the inheritance." Romy announced dumbly. Annalis, who rather quickly recovered from her shuddering sobs, made a face.

"Of course they are you dolt. I'm glad the future of our family isn't in your hands." She mocked, backed by Nuna's laughter. Romy darkened.

"I bet I'll have more of an inheritance than you! Mother said that she would divide it amongst us-"Lucas _hmph'd_ and sat down in one of the vacant chairs as the others stood around the altar. "There won't be much left. You saw him, our brother Johann. He inherited the company and most of the shares. Viveka inherits a portion of that, a _small _portion. Mother gets whatever is left. As it says in _The Will._"

'The Will' had become a sacred term ever since their father was murdered, a term they didn't truly understand but heard numerous times daily. Either it was Johann, who had returned from India, grinning about the _Will_ to his mother or Viveka, who had been heading ships in the Far East complaining about the _Will. _Not a day passed where it was not argued. Viveka refused to talk about it with his brother, though he spoke badly of him liberally to his mother. Elosia seemed to favor Johann more, as most did, and Black remembered when Romy had told them that he heard Elosia tell Viveka to play his role as the "Subservient Brother". Black stepped from the altar and found a chair for himself, and Sigmund settled next to him. Annalis and Nuna teased Romy while Lucas brooded.

"Quite the family we have here." Sigmund smiled as Black grinned in response.

"Such a loving and dutiful group; Father would be proud." Sigmund was quiet for a moment, and then leaned into his brother's ear.

"Does it still bother you? The…_Murder?_" Black's eyes went wide even though he expected the question. He nodded and his face suddenly went hard.

"Everyone is too caught up with the laws of succession to ponder on the fact our Father was _killed."_ He said, whispering. Laughter rose as Annalis was able to get Romy to cry after a cruel jest, Even Lucas looked on with a grin on his face. Black turned his face back to Sigmund.

"Andolf was murdered. For no reason it seems. Father had enemies in the merchant trade but…"

"You wouldn't put it past the merchants to hire an assassin? You give them too much credit." Sigmund spat.

"An assassin wouldn't leave such a bloody scene. Our father fought for his life. I was the one who found him in his study. Stab wounds riddled his body, Sigmund. An assassin would have done the job cleaner. Whoever killed Father simply…ruined him, Sigmund, and then left. They stole nothing, took no maps or any other valuables. _They killed him and left._"

Sigmund was quiet for a moment, reflecting on what Isidor had just said.

"Then who killed him? What was the motive?"

Isidor felt himself closing his hand into a fist. "I don't know brother."  
he opened his hand and looked into his red palm. "I don't know." Sigmund was about to say something in response, but before he did a large crash was heard in the hallway where his mother and two eldest brothers had retreated into. Viveka stormed from the hall, Elosia running after him.

"Viveka, _please!_" she begged, and Viveka spun on his heels and backhanded her with a blow that echoed throughout the room. He curled his mouth in contempt as Elosia curled on the floor and sobbed deeply. Lucas rose from his seat and began to approach mother, but as he did so, Viveka's glare stopped him in his tracks.

"What's the meaning of this?" He rasped; Romy and Annalis and Nuna ending their game, watching Viveka now. Viveka said nothing to Lucas, and turned, His eyes falling on Johann just as the elder brother entered the room, the priest hiding in his shadow as he strode.

"You dare do this to the woman that birthed you?" He demanded, voice booming as he spoke.

"She is not my mother. No longer; just as you are not my brother." Viveka hissed. Johann grinned in angry humor.

"What is this nonsense?" He asked, helping Elosia to her feet as she silently whimpered. She had a bruise at the corner of her pretty mouth, blue against her tan skin. Viveka watched him as he did so, his cold eyes narrowing.

"I am not one of your kind. You and mother come from the same brood, a den of vipers as opposed to honest men."

Johann laughed cruelly as he steadied mother and released her from his soft grip.

"And you believe yourself to be an honest man?"

"I am, as Father was. As you never were." Viveka looked down at Johann's feet, and then leveled his gaze on his brother's blue eyes.

"You know that Father named me heir to the company." Johann shook his head in mock empathy.

"Perhaps you are mad, Viveka. The will clearly names me heir. As firstborn, it is my right."

Viveka's mouth opened in a snarl as he threw his arm in accusation. "YOU! That will was written before you were even born. Father groomed me for the task of running the trade, and he planned on changing the will, before he was _killed._" Silence took the room then, and Johann's face went hard.

"What are you saying?" He tested. Viveka looked at Johann with a deep hatred.

"It would be an easy thing for you to hire a man to kill father. You did it because you _knew_ he would write you out of the inheritance. Father never approved of your philandering ways, and you wanted to eliminate him, and secure his wealth for your own. You truly think a will written before you were even fat within our mother's belly?"

"You accuse me of murder. Do you hold no love for me, brother?" Johann questioned.

"I have never loved you. Ever since I was old enough, I was able to decipher your false smiles and your empty gifts. You are a selfish brigand, Johann, and that is why if Father was given the opportunity, which you robbed him of, by taking his life by way of a hired hand." Viveka fell silent as he waited for Johann to respond. Black Sina still sat with Sigmund, both of them watching the exchange from their seats in the isle.

It was Annalis who spoke next, her delicate voice surprisingly strong enough to carry across the wide room.

"Brothers, if I may," She began, a smile drawing on her face. She stepped closer to them, beautiful in the way girls budding with womanhood are, her black dress brilliant against her white skin.

"There is no way to confirm Viveka's statements. However, it is also unjust for Johann to claim the inheritance in light of Viveka's claims. And Johann is anything but unfair, my fair family." She nodded towards Johann, and then to Viveka.

"There is another way to solve this." As the words left her mouth, Black Sina thought he saw the faintest hint of a smile, but it disappeared as quickly as it came. Johann was oblivious, but Viveka frowned.

"What do you speak of?" He said with unease. Annalis' face lowered and her brilliant bright eyes went wide.

"The only way to solve this is for you two, my dear brothers, to have a _duel."_ There was a collective gasp and Elosia broke her sullen silence.

"I will _not _have my two sons fighting each other to the death!" She protested. Annalis smirked patiently.

"It need not be to the death. Victor by first blood should be sufficient. This is the only way."

"She's playing them." Sigmund whispered, and Black nodded in agreement. But why? What did she have to gain? Black knew the answer before the question left his mind. She had _nothing _to gain; but she lived for this- to cause divisions, sow distrust and hint at conflict, and then walk away innocently and watched as feuds arose from her whispers. She had always been like this, her and Nuna, often turning Romy and Lucas against each other. She had left Black alone, mostly, but he hated the way she looked at him- Her eyes seemed to display sympathy, but then at the last minute, they would turn into a gaze of bemusement, as if Black's existence itself was a joke.

"A duel. She is right. I will be satisfied with the outcome." Viveka announced. Johann tensed. "Even if you lose?"  
"A duel is the only way to avert dealing with your dishonesty and lies. There is nothing dishonest about a blade, Johann. You mind find such a weapon hard to manipulate."

Annalis bowed her head and slinked out of view, Nuna not far behind, whispering to her. As they sat, Annalis smiled warmly at something Nuna said, but Black could not decipher what the statement was.

"When would you have it, then?" Johann demanded.  
"Three days. It will be in our father's courtyard." Viveka answered, and then left the building, striding away with long legs. Johann was silent, watching as his brother left. His eyes fell to Annalis.

"A duel. Tell me, where did you find such a foolish notion?" He hissed. Annalis frowned and looked up at her brother. "Why- I read it in a book. Isn't this how nobility solve conflicts? And what are we, if not the highest of the nobles?" Her smile returned.  
"I thought it was only appropriate." Nuna grinned then as well, and the both of them looked exactly the same in their devious beauty. Johann scowled and then looked at his mother.

"I will be at your home in three days' time. I must retrieve a sword, it seems." Johann shot one more look at Annalis, and then left the building.

"A-A duel would be most appropriate." The priest said. "And it is only to first blood. No need to fret." He offered, but Elosia waved him away. "You know nothing. Leave me to my family." She said. The man's face went red with anger, but he said nothing, bowing and returning to the bowels of the wake building.

Lucas was the first to take Johann's place by mother's side. "Viveka struck you. He should lose a hand for what he did." Elosia smirked grimly.

"Let us hope he does." She said, touching her wounded mouth softly. Sigmund looked at Black, who inclined his head and rose to meet his mother. Annalis and Nuna and Romy were at their feet as well, and as Sigmund and Black approached the circle, Elosia was surrounded by her children.

"The outcome of this match could very well be our undoing. Johann would be generous… Viveka holds no love for any of us."

"But mother, I barely _know _him" Romy whined. "He scares me." He added.

"I will try to keep all of you safe. But to do so, the first step is to make sure that Johann inherits the majority of your father's estate and earnings."

Sigmund spoke up. "But how are we to do this? And…is this…"

"it isn't fair." Black finished. "Whoever wins, wins." Elosia looked as if she could slap Black when he said that. For a moment, he believed that she would, but she chose to smile instead. "Your opinion is somewhat less important than the security of our lives. Your younger siblings need the protection that your father's money gives us, and you need a small amount as well, for schooling."

Black had almost forgotten that his mother was determined to send him to Switzerland. He said nothing in response, and the silence made Elosia uneasy. She coughed and looked away from Black. Isidor smiled despite himself- _I even make my own mother uneasy. Am I truly such a horrid son? _

"If Johann wins, we need not do a thing. But if he loses… We have to have something prepared to indict Viveka. Some illegal product, some clever lie… anything to prevent him from inheriting the wealth of your father." Elosia frowned, and then smiled at her children.

"You are all precious to me. My beautiful offspring. Your mother will protect you, you need not worry. But now it is time to leave this wretched place. We're going home." She said, and had Black go outside to alert their carriage. As he left, he wondered if his father would be proud of how quickly they deteriorated without him. _Two sons fighting each other, and a family fighting a son. _It was almost poetic. Black _really _smiled then.

He liked poetry. Perhaps he would write that down.


	58. Chapter 49

IT did not know who it was. Before the fire, it had been _Durza, _but so many parts of it were missing. They had all scattered, entering different bodies, instead of staying together. Fear drove them, and now they were separated. It curled slowly decaying arms around rotting legs, naked by a small stream.

_What are we? _

A voice spoke within it. The voice was one of those that followed it into this vessel, but it did not know how to answer the question.

_What are we? I do not know. _

_What are we called?  
_

_Again, I do not know. _

The sun rose over their shared head, making the bubbling pool seem to glow like polished silver in the light. It leaned over, looking at its reflection, silver hair sprouting from its scalp. Dead eyes moved from within sinking eye-sockets, and its face sagged slightly, loosing figure as it was loosed from the skull. Whatever the human had been before, it did not know. A soldier, obviously. But it knew nothing of that life. Unlike Carasib, it had not shared its body willingly- it was already dead. All memories within the man had died with him, leaving _It_ with nothing to build upon.

A noise behind caused It to jump to graying feet, toes sinking between the moist sand. It saw another, with blood red hair and yellow eyes. It too had possessed a decaying body, and it added to its fearsome appearance.

"What are you?" It asked. The fellow Shade offered a grin.

"We were Durza, once. But now we do not know what we are, exactly." It answered, eyeing It hungrily.

"I do not want to join with you," It replied, inching backwards. The malevolent shade guffawed as it pounced on It, ragged clothing trailing behind the creature. It yelped as it felt the Shade's mind close around, enveloping It. It was only two, whereas this Shade was as many as six. It threw off the Shade, rising to its feet as the Shade charged again. It howled as a punch connected to the Shade's face, crashing into its skull. The Shade yelped as brain came dribbling out of the open cavity, and It could see the spirits within attempt to flee.

IT absorbed them all, locking them within the body, sealing them with magic that only Shades knew. The captured spirits banged against the bars of their prison, but to no avail. They were the property of It, now.

_What are we called now?_

It reflected. Numerous spirits resided within their shared body, instead of just two. It saw how the increase in magic began to revert the decaying process, its skin growing less gray and more white, as nails turned pink instead of black.

"Cambion." It said, aloud, hearing the sound with its own ears.

Cambion took the tattered robes that the vanquished Shade wore, and made its way to the Lands of House Yobar, the only location it gleaned from the body it possessed.

(line break)

GALBATORIX sat with his generals. The Forsworn, save for Morzan, were all gathered as well. A map was spread out before him in the strategy room, marked and scribbled and stained. He looked at the piece of paper impassively as General Kyl of House Ronar spoke.

"The North, deep South, and southeast lands are lost to us. However, most western and eastern houses are still pledged to your crown, My Lord." Kyl pointed a weathered finger to the capital, and circled it.

"Additionally, we still control the core of Alagaesia, which contains the most numerous lands and largest of the Houses. We also have the Urgals." He said confidently. Another General, a mage from House Kenlan, spoke, his eastern Alagaesian accent adding a lick of flame to his words.

"We no longer control as many Urgals as we have before. It seems Durza as gone astray. My mages have attempted to contact him, which proved to be fruitless."

Galbatorix nodded. "So have mine." He concurred.

"The Urgals he commanded seemingly have been killed, at least a portion of them. According to my reports, a rogue mage commandeered them, and ravaged Houses in the deep North. But even those Urgals have fallen silent. Something unallied with us has taken action against the common folk it seems. I do not know for what purpose. What's more . . ." Lord Kenlan's hand pointed at the river valley near the lands of House Yorbar.

"A shade has scryed us. It would look that it once was a part of our weapon, Durza. I do not know exactly what has transpired, but I believe Durza has been vanquished. This new Shade, which calls himself Moluch, claims he can muster an army of Urgals and various other beasts from his current position."

Farland leaned back in his seat, his weathered face frowning.

"So it seems he knows of the intelligence we have received. The Varden forces massing in the lands of House Yorbar."

Galbatorix stroked his chin as his eyes rested on the map before him.

"I never trusted Shades. Still, a surprise attack . . ."

"A surprise attack that would risk none of our resources. Regardless of the result, we win. Soon, Morzan will strike North, and if Moluch is defeated, all we have to do is wait for the weakened Varden to march upon us. It will be a war of attrition, and by the time they reach us, they will be a defeated army, dead men walking on tired legs, holding rusted swords fueled by malnourished ambition." Kinure added, twirling a lock of his long hair between his thin fingers.

"I can contact this Moluch, and give him your orders." Lord Kenlan said quietly.

"Very well. I see no reason not to take this route. However, I want the defectors unharmed. They will be very valuable to me, and I will not have them harmed by possessed beasts." Galbatorix ordered. Lord Kenlan bowed, his mail armor chattering as he did so.

Alauinel smiled, her sharp features beaming. "We will defeat these usurpers, and after we do, our rule will go unopposed."

Galbatorix placed both of his hands on the map, leaning on the table as his eyes focused on the traitorous House Yorbar. They would be the first ones to feel his wrath.

"Let's win this war." He lifted his hands from the table, and pointed at the parchment boundaries of House Yorbar, and they began to smoke as blue flame at away at them. As smoke filled the room, the Forsworn and his other Generals clapped, causing Galbatorix to remember what Morzan had said ages ago, about his foolish dream of statues.

_You were wrong, my friend. There will only be victory for us. Nothing less. _

(line-break)

"Eragon Drakefyre," Orrin repeated as a young boy knelt before him. A brilliant blue dragon curled around the boy's body, a little bit larger than some of the dessert hounds back in Surda. He was disappointed, to say the least. When he had envisioned a Rider, he saw an armored warrior, well-versed in swordplay and magic, astride a massive dragon capable of felling entire armies. Instead, he saw a green boy and a lizard not even large enough to ride. Lord Yorbar stood by Orrin as Orrin sat in the former's lordly chair. They were situated in House Yorbar's high hall, a light-brown room, filled with sweet-smelling smells as servants played music quietly. A statue of Atmon was found in the center of the room, constructed of wood and ancient stone. Jewels shined in place of eyes on the figure, rubies that seemed to see everything. Orrin focused back on the boy, who dwarfed before the monument. Beside the boy, another Rider, a young-looking man named Brom, also knelt. And beside him, an elf-girl called Arya mirrored his movement.

_I wish I was marrying her. _

She had an exotic look to her, with her strange eyes and hair. Skin finer that milk covered a thin but curved body. She possessed a sharp featured face that screamed, no, demanded of respect and praise, and it didn't help to mention that she was royalty. The thousands of Elves that had joined them were bolstered by her arrival, as this Arya was supposedly a princess, heir to the Elf lands and member of House Valbhorethlian. Of the elves, there were a diverse group. Orrin saw the elves of wood, elves of the high, and even the elusive and subservient Dark Elves, who seemed to be vassal houses to the High Elf groups. Regardless, the Elf girl, much to Orrin's chagrin, was more valuable than the boy.

_I should have named her my champion. This child has yet to even earn his spurs. _

The boy raised his head, shaking visibly.

"My Lord?" He stammered.

"My _Grace_," Orrin corrected. Eragon reddened, dropping his head.

"It is a great honor to receive you, Rider. Though I was expecting someone . . . more seasoned. Though I suppose I let my childish vies of what made a Rider get in the way of reality. It takes years for Dragons to mature, does it not, Rider Brom?" Orrin asked.

The man named Brom nodded.

"It does, My Grace. Though Eragon has learned quickly. However . . ."

Orrin frowned.

"What is it?" He asked.

"I am no longer a Rider. Not truly. The boy needs to learn from a true Rider, to benefit you and your cause fully."

Orrin laughed softly, bemused.

"If by true Rider, you mean one who still has a Dragon, there will only be Forsworn who fit that category. Perhaps I should postpone the invasion and ask Galbatorix if I could borrow one of his Dragons."

Arya spoke, without his acknowledgement of her. However, he let her speak, and his face softened as her beautiful words touched his ears.

"That is not entirely true, King of Men . . . For some time my people have harbored another Rider. Him, and his _Dragon." _

Orrin was shocked beyond words. The Elves had a Rider this entire time? If Orrin was the Rider, he would have gotten vengeance on the Empire at the first chance he had gotten. Why did this one wait? What is his goal?

"Then why is he not here? Your Queen has not allied with us, but many of her people have taken their oaths without her approval. Honor dictates that he should be among us."

"He . . . he believes in patience, and he believes in strict honor. He will not do anything without the Queen's approval. But he is the only chance for Eragon to truly learn how to master his skills. I do not know if my mother will approve, but on my authority alone I can at the very least get Eragon to Ellesmera."

"I will have to reflect on this . . ."

"If I may intrude, My King," Lord Yorbar started, "It would be very prudent of you to allow this. Drakefyre, as he is, would not stand a chance in real war. It would be better if he spent some time away from the conflict. Allow his dragon to grow, where it will inspire more confidence instead of laughs." Yorbar whispered. Orrin nodded, as the man was correct.

"I will tell you my decision after we meet with the dwarves." Orrin declared. Arya looked alarmed.

"_We?" _She gasped.

"Yes. The highest generals across all the races will be meeting with them, as we regroup with some of my advisors. We will sojourn into the underground Kingdom, into the city of Tronjheim, where the races will make history. It is an honor, Lady Arya."

_And it will allow me some time to speak to you further. I may soon be married, but it does not mean I cannot entertain a paramour. _

"Dismissed," Orrin smiled handsomely.

( line Break )

" Why did you request a private meeting with me, Lord Kenlan?" Galbatorix asked. His entire throne room was empty, save for he and the man.

"I thought it best to speak these words to only your ears. The Shade that was once part of Durza . . . told me something."

Galbatorix nodded carefully.

"Yes?"

Kenlan licked his lips. "_Caomhim lives." _


	59. Chapter 50

Murtagh wore clothing that was much finer than he. A golden doublet hugged his slim chest, while black sleeves stretched down his arms. Flared cuffs, colored red, circled his wrists while black trousers found themselves on his legs. Dark blue boots were stitched closed from his knee to the tip of his foot, while a new dwarven longsword, gifted to him by the King, hung from his belt. Before him, Nasuada stood, her back facing him. They were in a dark hallway, curving stone walls on either side of them. Stone doors sat before her, the knobs fashioned in the grimaced faces of golems.

"We should be inside." Murtagh said quietly. Nasuada paused, and Murtagh saw her hands slide away from her sides.

"This is the first time we've been alone . . . since . . ."

"It isn't like you to be late." Murtagh responded, yearning for her and yet knowing he couldn't. Nasuadon's words resurfaced in his mind, while a darker truth loomed.

_I cannot be with her. For a time, I entertained the idea . . . but I cannot . . . _

"Do you love me, Murtagh?" Nasuada asked suddenly, her voice shaking. Murtagh looked away from her neck, and to the stone reliefs that were scrapped upon the walls.

"Do you love me?" She asked again, turning to face him. Tears fell from her eyes, those dark and beautiful eyes. He did love her. But what good would love do them? He looked away from her, his long hair falling over his eyes as he did.

Nasuada turned without a word, and approached the door. Murtagh composed himself, and followed. Light entered his view as the Nasuada pulled the doors open.

"Nasuada!" Orrin cried, rushing up to her and holding her close. She accepted the hug, and Orrin winked at Murtagh as his head rested on Nasuada's shoulder. Before them, Several elves stood, with Dwarven lords and human ones as well. Prince Orik, nearly as big as his father, sat in a regal-looking throne while the dwarf king sat in his high-seat.

"A kirlai!" The dwarf king cried, and Prince Orik locked eyes with Murtagh at once, and smiled. Orrin released Nasuada, and he retreated back to his spot in the room. There were no chairs besides the ones for the prince and King, so they were all forced to stand around a jutting blue crystal that was found at the center of the gray-colored room. Murtagh loomed in Nasuada's shadow, as a guard, by Orrin's request. Orrin curiously took up his place with the Elves, and an attractive elf girl inched away from him as he brushed too closely against her. One of the dwarves, a handsome-looking one with dignified youth and grace approached Murtagh.

"Before the pleasantries begin, I would like to introduce myself. I am Vermal Nyste, and it is a pleasure to meet the one who saved our King." He bowed, taking Murtagh's hand. Murtagh pulled away from him slightly, smiling politely.

"I only did as what was expected of me." Murtagh saw Orrin frowning at him, and he smiled again, bigger this time, but inside his own mind. On the outside, his face was emotionless, as still as a summer pool, undisturbed by mosquito or wind or falling leaf.

Vermal fell back among the dwarves, and Orrin stepped forward.

"My allies, friends, associates." He said, and Murtagh heard the echo of Orrin's words shadowed in dwarf, for the sake of the dwarf king.

"The time is nearly upon us. In a short while, we will march for the mainlands, and retake our Kingdom!" He cried, too a half-hearted response of clapping. Flustered, he paused, and continued.

"Of course, all deals will be honored." He said quickly, to more silence. The races of the world looked at him expectantly, and he was silent, groping for words. Finally, he began anew.

"We are strong. The dwarves have already began their campaign in the seas. As we speak, Imperial trade routes are being raided, and ports blockaded. They will have to depend on their internal trade markets, as they will receive no coin nor product from anywhere else, thanks to our dwarven allies."

Vermal grinned proudly.

"After my marriage, we shall march. I will be on the frontlines, fighting with you, my brave allies. It will be a hard battle, but in the end we will prevail. Justice will prevail."

"I know you." One of the Elven lords said suddenly. Orrin turned, confused, as a tall and dark-haired elf brushed past him. The elf had blue eyes, white skin, and wore a yellow sash over one shoulder, while a curved blade hung from a jewel-incrusted belt. A sigil was painted on his tunic : A green viper, curling to strike. He stopped before Murtagh, and Murtagh could do nothing but return the stare he received.

"Your face . . . it cannot be . . ."

Steel flashed before Murtagh, and he jumped back, groping for his own sword as the elf charged. The dwarf king bellowed as he jumped from his throne, grasping for the elf. His allies, excluding the elf girl, jumped to the attacking lords defense, blocking the dwarf king. Orrin looked abashed as Murtagh danced away from the tip of the cruel and curving blade.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Nasuada screamed. Murtagh finally drew his new sword, and blocked a blow that would have taken half of his face. The steel rang in the room, bouncing off of the walls like a wayward banshee.

"I forgot you humans live such short lives. This . . . this is _Morzan."_

Murtagh's defense faltered as the words touched his ears. The elf lord pressed the assault, knocking Murtagh's blade free from his hand. Murtagh fell to the ground, a sword inches from his neck.

"Morzan? Impossible. He's at Uru'baen." Orrin said as the dwarf king screamed at the elves that blocked him.

"It is him. The eyes, the hair . . . Morzan is among us. I know not how he came here."

"You're wrong." Nasuada said loudly. Heads turned as she spoke.

"Check his hand. Morzan is a member of the Forsworn. If it is him, he would be marked." She said.

The elf lord reached down and roughly grasped Murtagh's right arm. Murtagh didn't resist as the elf turned his palm over, and frowned as he found nothing.

"Treachery. This is Morzan. I saw this one kill many of my kin. We were with Evander while the traitor she-elf burned our lands. Morzan killed Evander, and then my two brothers. Our reward for aiding the humans. And it seems we have been fooled again. This is a trap . . . I doubt anyone here could defeat Morzan, and here he lies. Ready to destroy this alliance."

"Lord Ocain, I promise you, this man is not Morzan. He is the son of some trader we found in the deep south. Abandonded." Orrin said quickly. Lord Ocain suddenly gripped Murtagh's head in his fingers, and began digging through his mind. Murtagh let him, putting up no defense. Even if he did, the Elf could easily tear through them. The elf retreated from his mind, a sly smile on his face.

"Not Morzan, but Morzan's _son. _His name is Murtagh, which means he is named after the black flame, Murtaghen."

Prince Orik's voice rose above the sudden clamor.

"Murtaghen killed many of our kin." He said coldly.

A Sealed Elf spoke next, ebony skin shining as blonde hair touched the elf's cheek.

"And many of ours." He said, his voice almost soothing.

As the words were translated for the King, the dwarf ruler erupted in fury, speaking so fast spit came flying from his mouth.

"My father states he refuses to ally with a King who harbors a son of the Forsworn." Orik said harshly.

"What should be done with him?" Vermal asked.

"Arrest him at once." Orin commanded. Dusk Riders, who had been hidden from view, came from the shadows behind Murtagh. He did not fight back as they bound him with powerful arms.

"My father demands that he dies." Orik said.

"It will be done, and quickly." Orrin assured.

"YOU CANNOT KILL HIM! Not without trial. He did nothing wrong." Nasuada bellowed. Murtagh looked at her, and then looked away, ashamed.

_Why didn't I run? I should have gone. Now . . . now I am lost. Lost to her forever. _

"He will answer for Morzan's crimes. Dusk Riders, interrogate him, make him take responsibility for the deaths of those who fell at Morzan's hands."

Murtagh was led down into a dark crypt.

He was stripped.

He was pressed face first into a cold stone wall.

The pain of the first slash made him gasp in surprise. The whip cracked in the air, and then it slapped against his skin again, sharp claws at the end of the tough leather pulling his skin away. He felt blood dribble down the end of his back, down his buttocks and down his legs. The whip struck again and again, until Murtagh knew nothing but the numb pain of it. They asked him questions, and he just remembered saying no. No and no and no, until it became the only word he knew. The only sensation he knew. He heard the question, replied, and then felt the whip. Sometimes hours would pass where he was left alone, shivering and thirsty. He heard a door open, saw light reflect from the stone he was facing.

A gasp.

_Nasuada. _

She hurriedly stepped to him, and he heard her footsteps pause as she no doubt took in the ruin of his back. It had already been scarred before, and he couldn't imagine what it looked like now.

"I brought you water." She said quietly, pressing it to his lips as she delicately held his head in the direction of the waterskin. Murtagh drank greedily, as the cool liquid dripped down his neck as it flowed into his throat. He emptied the waterskin, and Nasuada dropped it at her feet. He turned to face her, looking as best as he could, his arms, which were raised and chained above his head, blocking his view somewhat.

"I do love you, Nasuada. I love you. I'm sorry and I love you."

"Murtagh," She rasped.

"I'm innocent. I did nothing. You know that." He said.

"They brought me here to convince you to admit to your crimes. Your father's crimes."

Murtagh laughed bitterly, the action hurting him.

"Crimes? How is that justice. Orrin prattles on about justice, but what is this? He's had it out for me, he is just looking for a chance to get rid of me, and here it is. The others . . . their hatred for my father deludes their minds. The King . . ." Murtagh smiled.

"I saved him. And this is how he returns my kindness."

Suddenly, a thought entered into his mind.

"Zidda. What did they do to Zidda?" Murtagh asked.

"He is to be executed as well."

"Damn it. _DAMN IT. DO something!" _Murtagh screamed. Nasuada stepped back from him.

"Morzan is evil . . ."

"But am I? is ZIDDA? He's just a boy, Nasuada. Your king, his father . . . they're EVIL! Look at what they're doing, open your eyes. DO you even know why Galbatorix rebelled? Do you?"

Nasuada was silent.

"Of course not. It was for a girl. She was killed. By dwarves, dwarves who attacked her without provocation. Galbatorix demanded justice. The king, a Langfeld king, And the Lord Rider Vrael were too weak to act against the dwarves. The dwarves in turn offered a meager proxy to stand in for the dwarf that committed the crime. Galbatorix killed him, killed the bastard while the dwarf wore the girl's bones. Then the Langfelds went after Galbatorix, on behalf of the dwarves. That is how your precious kingdom was overthrown."

"I don't believe you." She said softly.

"Why? Because I'm Morzan's son?"

"You lied to me."

"What did you want me to do? Yes, I am Murtagh of House Circcian, son of Morzan, first of the Forsworn. You said you loved me, before. Do you still?"

Nasuada left him. In the silence Murtagh sobbed, big gulping cries that racked him while tears as heavy as blood dragged across his cheeks. Soon after, the whips returned. One day after that, they came again. And then the next day. On the third day, as blood poured from Murtagh's back, he took the blame for the murders Morzan committed.

"You will be killed after Orrin's wedding. He plans to behead you himself." A cruel voice said behind him.

Tears had been dried from Murtagh's eyes. The only thing left was anger. His eyelids crawled open, and a ragged voice left his cracked lips.

"I will kill _everyone." _


	60. Chapter 51

Well guys, the end of the first rewrite project is near. I will continue the series in this thread, while the "lorebook" will be posted in a separate page. I am going through my notes and making everything readable, and I'll probably post it a few days after Eragon Book I is finished. It's totally amazing how this fanfic took off, with nearly 18k views. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy the climatic conclusion to this first entry.

(End A/N)

HERZIG placed his palm on the skull of a long-deceased High Elf. Dark magic swam around him, spirits whispering in his mind, some rubbing against his skin like some goading lover. Around him, bone spires rose, some of them as tall as the dark trees that shared their space. His acolytes sung beautifully, a ballad to their god, their father.

_Golhlobor. _

The skull began to heat Herzig's palm, and when the dark elf closed his eyes, he saw the future. He saw land awash in black flame, he saw Golhlobor sitting upon a throne of blood and bone. He saw the fallen Prince tower of the land, whip lashing out at pitiful beings who challenged him. Herzig shuddered in ecstasy as he pulled his hand away from the skull, his fingers engulfed in black flame that melted away his skin, leaving only a polished skeletal palm.

"What did you see, father?" Herzig was drawn fully back into the physical world as his son's voice hit his ears. Danziig Bloit was an accomplished disciple. He learned from Golhlobor that there was a mage who was commanded by a shade named Durza. The mage had been abandoned, and the urgals that were enamored by the shade's spell as well. Danziig had been able to possess the mage and take command of the urgal forces, and went on a long and bloody rampage in the north. In the end, he had been defeated, but not before Golhlobor's blood seal had been weakened even further, due to the sacrifices Danziig accumulated. It was because of him, they could move their plan ahead.

"I saw visions and omens, my son. Good omens." Herzig said, and then spoke louder to the surrounding acolytes.

"I have seen our foes burn, and I have seen Golhlobor smile at the fruits of our efforts. He has said it is time. Time to begin our attack. He has gifted us with more of his servants, dark warriors that will not falter in fear, and will inspire such emotion in our enemies. Bring them forth."

Seven high elves were herded into the circle. Beaten nearly to death, their backs were slashed open, and Herzig could see the red gleaming muscle that hid beneath white skin. Acolytes filled the open wounds with ash, and then Herzig began the incantations.

The high elves turned, growling and cawing and _roaring _as black cloaks twisted around them, as snouts and beaks and tentacles grew from their faces. Two of them, however, turned into something of a special sort. Their bodies expanded past normal limits, growing long and gray as skin stretched over growing bone. Wings splattered forth from disfigured backs in a waterfall of black blood, while hands and legs were turned into bird-like limbs, talons scraping at stone. These new creatures raised their curved beaks and _cawed _into the night, while spiders as big as an elf's chest crawled from inside their open maws.

"_The end comes." _One of these new beasts, the Lethrblaka said, turning its massive beak towards Herzig. It lowered its head, and Herzig scampered up the beast, saddling his legs around the Lethrblaka's neck.

"We strike the wood elves first." Herzig said as his skeletal hand pressed against the mushy head of his new mount. The creature screamed as it lifted off in the air, and in three easy strikes with its large wings, it rose over the forest that had once stood around them. The Lethrblaka wheeled around in the air as its brother joined it in the sky, while below, nearly one million dark elves sped through the wood, leaving their territory and starting the invasion that would start with the death of the Wood Elves, and would end with the freeing of Golhlobor.

(Line Break)

MOLUCH tied his red hair behind his head, a long ponytail held in place by a black and ragged cloth. His pallid skin contrasted with his dark brown garments, a leather jerkin, stained with blood, around his chest. His legs were adorned with plain brown trousers, and his feet inhabited molding boots. Behind him, seventy thousand urgals waited. Intermixed with them were possessed shadow lions and darkwolves, creatures of the wilds in the flat lands of House Yorbar. It was night, and Moluch could taste the slight lick of joy in the air. His ears, much more refined that that of a human or an elf, heard music playing faintly. A tiger-boar sniffed at his hand as he stroked the mane of the creature, its curved horns gleaming in the moonlight. He hopped onto the beast, his legs curling around the beast's thick torso. His hands dug into abundant fur, and he urged the creature forward.

_Go. _

The urgals ran then, coming up behind as the wood and stone walls of Olan were seen. Moluch's yellow eyes glowed with glee as he sensed confusion coming from the various sentries as they no doubt saw the growing dark cloud approach them. He stretched out with his mind, and possessed one of the men.

"_Ko'es Quen Ko'est?"_ Moluch heard a man say as he stood, in another body, atop the walls watch tower turrets. Without a second thought, Moluch pulled a dagger from his belt and slit the throat of the talking man. He pulled the man to the wooden flooring of the turret, the dying human looking up at him in confusion as blood welled from his mortal wound. Moluch produced the bow that hung on his shoulder and then strung an arrow. He saw another watcher, aimed, and fired. The arrow struck through the man's neck, and he fell to the ground with a dull thud. Moluch then leapt from his tower, leaving the only surviving human's body quickly enough so that the human would feel the heavy crash of death. Moluch's eyes constricted as he returned to his own form, air brushing against his face as the tiger-boar pounded at the earth. The urgals roared as they trampled through, while shadow lions deftly maneuvered between thick urgal legs. Darkwolves yipped as they ran, tongues lolling while their ebony fur stood on edge on their long backs.

As he reached the wall, Moluch held out his hand, and felt magic coursing through his pale arm.

"_Brafanio Aul Daranka!" _He howled, and the portion of the wall he aimed at fell into itself, pieces of wood and stone pulled into a swirling vortex.

"GO! GO! GO AND KILL THEM ALL!" Moluch screamed as the Urgals ran past him, and he sensed a mounting fear from those gathered in this doomed city.

_Humans, Elves, and Dwarves underneath. _ Fleshly things.

_Prey. _

Moluch's mount leapt over the horned heads of urgals as foolish men, wearing helmets in the appearance of goats, raised their spears as Moluch's army crashed through the streets of Yorbar. The Tiger-boar gored three of them, their entrails spinning from stomachs gashed open. The rest of the guards faltered, and then they were destroyed by the urgal charge. Moluch raised his hand, and summoned his weapon. It had a long hilt, with a purple-colored blade that extended for nearly eight feet. He rested the sword on his shoulder as he pressed his charge. Urgals opened homes and pulled out crying humans, felling them with clubs, iron swords, horns, and fists. Darkwolves tore out hamstrings as shadow lions pulled and tore at flailing arms and streaming hair. Horns were sounded as the Varden camps came alive, and Moluch could sense fear, anger, and even excitement come from soldiers rushing to where he was. Moluch raised a hand, a large orb of fire appearing above his fingertips.

"Enjoy the rain!" He screamed as he thrust his arm downwards. The ball of fire erupted in the air, and long streams of flame fell to the earth, instantly catching on the homes of the city. The sensation he felt from the Varden lessened, and he frowned.

_Regrouping underground? Wise, but ultimately fruitless. _

Moluch re-organized his bestial army, and slowly made his way through Yorbar, approaching the dark mountains that separated the city from the dwarven kingdoms. As his tiger-boar stepped out of the burning city, he saw the gleaming stone wall that contained the dwarves within their grounds. Moluch smiled, and rushed his army forward.

(Line Break)

"How many are they?" Orrin asked hurriedly as his new wife shivered on his arm.

"I do not know, My Grace. I narrowly escaped with my life." Lord Yorbar shook as well, anger and fear on his face. He had been able to dress himself in his regal armor, silver-colored plate mail, while a fearsome-looking helm was held between his arm and his hip. A sword waited in its sheath opposite of the helmet, dangling from a black belt, weighed down by the heavy gauntlet that rested on the sword's pommel.

"You coward. You rush into Tronjheim while your people are put to the sword." A human scowled at Yorbar, a general of Orrin's.

"Silence yourself, Lord Olyn. It is a sound thing he has done." Orrin said, and Olyn fell silent.

They were in the main castle of Tronjheim, while their diverse army seat up in the vacant homes and streets. The people had been hurried into one of the empty jewel mines below. Orrin's wife had wanted to flee as well, but Orrin refused her. She was his queen, now, and she was to be at his side, whenever able.

"There will be no time to set up any sort of barricade. Once they break through, there will be only us stopping them." The elf lord Ocain ran his hand through dark locks.

"King Orrin, I have set up my arches in the homes surrounding the stone gate. The Wood Elf rangers are the best shots in the land." The brown-skinned elf named Haroi assured. His clan, he was told, had the ability to change into massive bears. They would come in handy.

"But where did they come from? That is what I wish to know." An elf lord named Ceiyen Terfel spoke, blonde hair framing a handsome face.

"It does not matter, save that we will defeat them." Prince Orik boasted proudly. The Dwarf King growled something in his tongue, and Orrin frowned.

_This is not how it is supposed to be. _

They were seated in a circular spire that overlooked the entire city, high above even the highest buildings. There were gaping holes in the spire, and men raised telescopes, reporting every shudder and crack the stone gate suffered before it was inevitably broken through.

"We can do nothing but wait until the battle comes." A dark elf said softly. There was a murmur of agreement among them as Orrin raised himself from his seat, leaving his wide-eyed wife. He approached one of the large circles in the wall, and snatched a telescope from a fidgety human. He wiped the eyeglass clean and then peered within the long cylinder-like tool. He spotted the gate, and then nearly dropped the telescope as a massive crack spider-webbed across it. Time seemed to slow down as stone shards fell uselessly to the ground, as urgals sped through the breech, as black wolves and lions zipped past them. Arrows were loosed into the crowd, and many of the invaders fell, but they just kept on coming.

"It begins. The battle has started." Orrin declared as his generals sprang into action around him. Tronjheim, which had been deathly quiet, had erupted into howls and screams. Orrin's stomach turned as he heard the dying cries of man and beast.

"King Orrin, I have arranged for a safe place that you and your wife may hide. If Your Grace would permit me to-"

"Silence, Lord Goryn. I will join the battle."

Lord Goryn looked abashed, his balding head already beaded with sweat.

"My Grace?" He said dumbly.

"I will join the battle. Prepare my things."

_I will prove to them that I am King. I will prove to them that I deserve this. _


	61. Chapter 52

ERAGON raised his shield as a shadow-colored wolf ran at him, slightly slipping on blood that was splattered on the stone streets of Tronjheim. The wolf's tongue bounced and dangled from a panting mouth, and Eragon lifted his sword as the beast leapt, closing the distance between them. Eragon roared, slashing his sword down, closing his eyes as he heard the deep and heavy crunch that rose from the wolf's skull, shattered by Eragon's sharp blade.

Around him, The Varden died.

_Eragon! _ Saphira screamed within his mind as Eragon heard the heavy steps of an Urgal behind him. The creature uttered a guttural call, a massive club in its hands. Horns glistened with gore and blood, and Saphira walked up on Eragon's flank, her wings flared. Behind the massive Urgal, the battle raged throughout the streets. Wolves, Lions, and Urgals massed on Varden forces, the newly allied Dwarves attacked with gusto, but even they seemed to be gaining the upper hand. However, with every Urgal dead, it seemed the beasts took ten soldiers with them. Eragon focused back on the Urgal charging him, his sword held high. The Urgal swung its club carelessly, Eragon ducking and rolling under it while Saphira took to the air. She flew into the Urgal's eyes, biting and clawing while the behemoth howled, dropping its weapon as it attempted to swat Saphira to the ground. Eragon took the chance and plunged his sword deep into the Urgal's bowels, His blade vanishing into the layers of fat and muscle of the Urgal. Eragon spun as he pulled the blade free, lifting his shield just in time as a small wolf smashed against it. He pushed the yelping animal to the ground, and then impaled it through the eye with the point of his sword.

_Where is Arya? And Brom? _Eragon asked as he saw a squad of elves descend deeper into the fray, brushing past him.

_She was with Orrin at the spire. As for Brom . . .I have not seen him since we arrived here. _Saphira answered. Eragon knitted his brows as the battle in the street he stood in died down. Here, at least, the monstrous army had been held back. In the other alleyways and crosswalks, it was a different story. Most of the fighting was being done in the main courtyards of Tronjheim, located near the now-broken gate. Eragon made his way now, Saphira running beside him. Her scaled head nearly reached his shoulder, and the softness of her wings rubbed against Eragon's boiled leather trousers.

The street fell sharply at a descending incline, and from this high vantage point, Eragon could see most of the lower portions ofTronjheim. Snaking roads, littered with bodies, ran down into large stone flats, graced by gargantuan statues stylized so it seemed that they held the stone ceiling of the mountain's bowels above them. It was in those courtyards that Varden flags wavered while roars and bellows and screams tickled Eragon's ears.

_Let's go. _ Eragon said to Saphira as he put his heels into the granite streets. He ran down, Varden reinforcements following him. Several elves easily outran him, and Eragon heard a growl behind his head as hot breath licked at his long hair.

"_You're slow, Rider. And your Dragon is small." _

Eragon turned to see a massive bear facing him, one of its eyes missing. Without warning, a wood-elf girl with bronze skin emerged from behind the bear, and pulled Eragon ontop of the beast. Saphira flapped her wings and rose into the air, flying with them as the bear quite literally galloped down the steep stone roads.

"_W_ho are you?" Eragon asked as air rushed past his face. The Elf girl turned her head halfways.

"Elonubum! If we survive this battle, you can have my last name as well. Now wrap your arms around my waist." She ordered, and Eragon did as he was bid, sheathing his sword as he watched the battle grow closer and closer from behind her sculpted shoulders. They gradually came closer, the sounds of death becoming more apparent and the stench of the Urgals filling his nostrils. The bear squeezed through ranks and ranks of soldiers, quickly coming up on the front lines.

"Wait-" Eragon said as the enemy army entered his vision.

Elonubum turned her head and winked at him. She pulled the bear's ears and leaned back into Eragon's lap slightly.

"_Faster, Brother!" _

The bear roared and scraped claws against hard road. Sparks flew from the bear's paws as they came up on the enemy force. Thousands of Urgals intermixed with Varden warriors, while those evil wolves pounced and circled and nipped, running between legs of Urgal and man alike. Ebony-colored lions roared as they struck men with heavy paws, pushing them to the ground and cracking necks with powerful jaws.

The bear ran straight into the fray. Elonubum leapt from the bear's back as an Urgal charged directly at them. She wore a slim andbrown colored skirt, sculpted legs leading to curved hips, while her small chest was slimly garbed by a mauve-colored tunic. At her belt she pulled a dagger free and spun in the air as she pushed it down into the Urgal's eyes. The beast fell, but as it did so, a shadow-lion took its place, pouncing at Elonubum. Eragon's eyes widened, and he instinctively threw out his hand, words leaving his mouth without his authority.

"Brisingr!" He cried, and Elonubum flattened herself against the corpse of the Urgal as blue flame spouted over her. The lion howled as it was consumed, and Eragon slid off from the bear's back, drawing his sword as wolves circled. One of them jumped, only to be thrown to the ground by a diving Saphira, her teeth tearing at the wolf's throat. Varden forces surged around him, holding the tide of monsters back for the time being. Saphira flapped her wings at the face of another wolf as it growled at her, while Elonubum twirled on the stomach of the Urgal, a shadow lion harmlessly jumping past her, paws opened wide as if it were searching for a hug. It landed before human men armed with spears, and they made short work of the beast while Eragon turned his attention forward. The smell of blood, feces, and urine mixed in a disgraceful aroma of violence, Eragon stepping over the dead and dying. His sword moved of its own accord, felling Urgal and wolf and lion alike. When his sword wasn't fast enough, Saphira was, flying into his enemies and then retreating, her strong wings powering her. As he moved mechanically through the battle, past the massive statues that watched impassively above, Elonubum would cross paths with him. Sometimes he would save her, sometimes she would assist him in felling an enemy. She would then melt back in the bland faces of his allies, unremarkable.

"Boy!" Brom said gruffly behind Eragon, grabbing his shoulder. Eragon spun, his sword raised. Brom didn't flinch as Eragon's blade stopped short of his face.

"I am relieved you live." He said, smiling. Eragon nodded, and he fell back as Brom lead the way. Brom's brilliant rider's blade swung left to right, killing Urgals and wolves. A shadow lion leapt before Brom, and the man swatted it aside with his broadsword, splitting the creature's torso in half. They fought for hours, never tiring as their allies fell around them. Eragon could feel Rider's magic coursing through him, powering him, keeping him strong and alert. His shield became a second weapon, using it bludgeon wolves and harry Urgals, while Saphira dug out their eyes with teeth and claw.

Eragon then saw Orrin, resplendent in gilded armor. His eyes searched for Arya, and he found her, fighting by Orrin while elves circled her. Orrin's sword flashed before him, and then an Urgal howled as it was freed of its arm. Orrin's hand sped to his belt, and then flung a dagger at the Urgal's head. The Urgal gibbered, and then fell as Orrin turned to behead a wolf that had planned to catch him by surprise. The corpse fell to the ground and slid across the stone, black blood trailing from a headless torso. Brom joined Orrin, and Eragon followed, Saphira above. They all fought valiantly, each one wordlessly supporting each other.

"I see I have found my prizes." A cold voice spoke. Eragon lowered his shield as a massive creature prowled closer, shoulder blades shifting below puffy fur. It had a mottled color of a tiger's cloak, while a furry tail swung behind it. But the creature at the nose of a pig, with curving black horns and yellow eyes. Atop the creature, a man sat, as pale as moldy milk, with red hair tied in a ponytail. It _looked _like Durza had, but the man had different features. Still, the same eyes haunted with violent mirth and dim recognition.

"Durza?" Brom said above the clamor of battle. "I saw you die." He raised his sword defensively.

"You know of Shades. I am not Durza, but one descended from him. All the same, I will kill you, as Durza would have done."

The tiger-boar rushed at them, seemingly growing larger as its snout opened, revealing rows of sharp teeth jutting from purple gums. Brom struck his hand to the ground, muttering magical spells. Spikes formed from the stone, impaling the tiger-boar as it ran. The Shade leapt from his dying mount, and landed behind Orrin. The young king turned as a massive blade coughed into existence. It slashed at Orrin, but the king staved off a few attacks, falling backward, his cape billowing behind him. Arya rounded on the Shade, but the attacker rose his hand and caught her by the arm, flinging her across the stone ground. She slid harmlessly away, dazed. Brom ran at the Shade, sword swinging. They exchanged blows as Eragon ran to assist him, only to be blocked by an Urgal that seemed to emerge from nowhere. Eragon saw as Brom lost ground fighting the Shade, his movements slowing.

"Move!" Eragon cried as he struck at the Urgal. The beast laughed as it blocked the blow with its massive palm, allowing Eragon's sword to slice it open as his steel slapped against the ground. He lifted his blade and swung it at the Urgal's leg, and the beast faltered, leaving it open for Saphira to come flying down, her jaws closing around the creature's neck. As she dragged the Urgal down, Eragon saw Brom.

The Shade's blade cut into Brom's shoulder, and dug past skin and bone. As the sword freed itself from Brom's body, the man's sword arm fell to the ground in a splash of blood.

"BROM!" Eragon bellowed, dropping his shield as he rushed at the Shade. The Shade turned at Eragon, face covered over with humor. Eragon jumped in the air, Saphira and he attacking the Shade simultaneously. The Shade shrugged off Saphira's bite and moved his blade across his face, the black steel sparking against Eragon's. The Shade pushed Eragon backwards, and the tip of his sword sliced across Eragon's leg. Eragon limped as he continued the fight, Saphira releasing herself from the Shade and taking to the skies, looking for an opening. The Shade circled with Eragon, mouth curled back in a smile. It ran at him, and Eragon lifted his blade to attack. The Shade sidestepped, and Eragon's sword crashed harmlessly against the ground. Pain flared from the corner of his left shoulder to the bottom right of his hip, and Saphira roaring in anger.

_ERAGON! _She shrieked as he fell. The Shade loomed over him, and threw Saphira to the ground with invisible fingers. The Shade then lifted Eragon into the air, and impaled him on the tip of his sword. Blood dribbled from Eragon's mouth as the Shade held its hilt high, Eragon's body slowly being dragged down the long shaft of the sword.

"Eragon!" Arya thundered as Orrin rushed to Brom. Monsters circled Arya and she cursed, fighting them with her elven guard as Orrin had men take Brom away from the battle. Eragon focused his blackened vision on the shade, his stomach touching the cold hilt of the Shade's long sword, his bright red blood painting the blade that jutted from his back.

"How does death feel, Rider?" The Shade asked, inches away from Eragon's face. Eragon looked at the creature through a veil of wet hair, and lifted his arm.

"Brisingr." He said, swallowing heavily. The Shade smiled, but then its eyes widened in surprise as Eragon's own arm erupted in flame. The Shade grunted as Eragon thrust his flaming arm into the body of the Shade, the abomination screaming as it let go of the hilt. Eragon's feet touched the ground as the weight of the sword that still impaled him left him off balance, but he dug his free hand into the collar of the Shade, while he forced his flaming limb deeper into the beast. The Shade bellowed in pain as its eyes exploded in small bubbling pools of white pus, while skin dried and cracked. Hair lost sheen as lights flashed from an open mouth, while the body of the Shade collapsed in ash. Eragon dropped to his knees, looking at the red and bubbling skin of his arm and hand. With his good fingers, he touched the long hilt of the sword, digits falling through it as the blade vanished in a gust of harsh smoke. Eragon's eyes rolled backward as he fell over on his back, sounds around him muting until there was nothing left but silence.

(Line Break)

He was supposed to be dead. Murtagh listened keenly at the noise of battle above, so keenly that he did not hear Zidda approach behind him. Murtagh heard Zidda's voice as the beyonder inched closer.

"My god . . . what did they do to you?" Zidda asked. Murtagh shook his head.

"What's going on?" He asked.

"They are being attacked."

"Imperial?" Murtagh questioned.

"No, something else." Zidda said as Murtagh felt his chains fall away. He was caught by Zidda, and groaned as his wounds were spread open again.

"Easy, Easy." Zidda whispered. Murtagh's eyes settled on two men. They were both bald, but one was much older than the other. However, their smiles made them look related.

_The Twins. _

"We're bringing you back home." The younger one said.

"You defected?" Murtagh asked. The old one tsk'd.

"I wouldn't call it defection. I would term it . . ." He trailed off, thinking.

"Selective faction reassignment!" The younger one declared with a pointed finger.

_Home. After all these years . . . _

The group shrank into the darkness of the numerous tunnels of the mountains, unbothered by the battle raging above.


	62. Chapter 53

MUCH TIME had passed. Eragon could tell that much when he opened his eyes for the first time. He had been plagued with horrific dreams while he slept, visions of death and destruction. He saw everyone he loved fall by the sword, and he saw the yellow eyes of the Shade he killed. The sights within his mind were hazy and unclear, but he knew that they spoke of nothing but complete and utter violence. He was wrapped in bed, inside a curving room carved of stone. Small holes were drilled into the wall on his left, and the dwarves tunnel-like cooling system forced small gusts of wind from the city into his humble chamber. Eragon felt the pressure of bandages around his chest, back, and stomach. He pulled his arm from his blanket, and it too was bandaged with stained cloth. It throbbed painfully, like the rest of his body.

A door outside of his field of vision creaked open, and a dwarf girl walked in, wearing a simple dress and carrying a platter that held a small bowl. She stopped, and looked at him with surprised black eyes. Eragon opened his mouth to speak, but the only thing that came out was a rasping cry. She turned from him and field while he convulsed on the bed, the wounds dealt to him by the Shade seemingly ripping him apart. He shot his eyes wide open, and he saw some black shadow crouching at the foot of his bed. The figure opened its mouth, and red blood dribbled from between its lips as yellow teeth gleamed in a fearsome smile. The creature lunged, claws scraping at Eragon's neck.

_Eragon! _

The sound of Saphira's voice smashed apart the vision like a hammer crashing glass. He saw no figure, and felt no claws. His heart jumped within the confines of his wounded chest, while Saphira rose from the side of the bed where she had been sleeping. He turned his head slowly to look at her, and his eyes widened in surprise. She had gotten large. Before, during the battle, she had been bigger than the darkwolves but smaller than the shadowlions. Now . . . she was nearly of the same size. Her wings brushed against the wall and Eragon's bed, and now that she moved, her actions shook the bedframe.

_You've gotten large . . . how long was I unconscious for? _Eragon asked. Saphira turned her large snout towards him, brilliant blue eyes brimming with intellect.

_Five months. _

Eragon was shocked. Five months? He attempted to raise himself, but that shadowy pain sent jabs of pain into him, forcing Eragon back down into the bed. His mind was filled with whispers in a strange tongue that slowly subsided.

_What is wrong with me? _Eragon asked Saphira. Every time he moved he felt intense pain. But it was more than that. There was a darkness _lingering _within him, some evil presence that clung to his innards, hooks wrapped around his ribs and muscles, causing pain, reveling in it.

_The Shade you fought . . . you defeated it, Eragon. But . . . the healers have said that portions of its essence have clung to you. We tried exorcising it from within your body, but you were not awake, which made it harder. Every spell we attempted to use was thwarted by the fact it infused itself within your body, to the bone, meaning that we would literally have to rip your body apart to free you from the spirit. _

Eragon looked up to the ceiling, hearing the voices again.

_I don't understand, Saphira. _

Eragon felt waves of compassion coming from Saphira, a wizened sadness ripe with pity. The feeling made Eragon uneasy, doubled by the fact Saphira had fallen silent.

_What do you mean? _He pressured.

_Shades are a joining of a body and an external spirit. Shades can use a dead body, or one that is still living if the host is willing, or too weak to resist. However, the connection is never truly complete- The Shade can leave a body if the host is about to die, or their corpse is threatened to be destroyed. If a Shade dies within a host body, it dies as well . . . host bodies can contain hundreds of spirits, and it seems that one entered into you as you destroyed the host body. The Healers say it tried to possess you, and it would have succeeded, but sub-consciously you contained and locked it within your body. The nature of the prison you created stripped it of its possession power, and quite literally made it part of you, Eragon. But as it is a part of your body, it is still aware of its own existence, and has the power to plague you with pain and other factors. I'm so sorry, Eragon. _

Eragon could feel the spirit now, lurking within him, curling underneath his skin. His mind was his own, and control of his limbs, but the spirit coursed in his blood, flexed with his muscles, and expanded with his lungs. It truly was a part of him, and although it could not possess him, it was capable of causing him pain.

_Where is Brom? _

_He is stable. He lost his arm, and the wound bled far beyond than what was normal, but the Healers were able to cure him of the curse left by the Shade's blade. He is living and well, but it will take time for him to adapt to a new sword-arm. We won the battle, Eragon. The enemy forces were shattered without the leadership of the Shade. All of them were killed. But we lost many. Fifteen thousand souls now lie dead. _

A spasm of pain racked Eragon, and he clenched his teeth together.

Fifteen Thousand. An almost unreal number. Eragon couldn't even visualize that many bodies.

Saphira picked up her head, and in a few seconds Eragon's door opened. He saw a brilliant-colored elf stride in, silver hair framing a pale colored face with bright blue eyes. The Elf wore black robes that trailed after his long legs, and thin arms crossed his chest as he stopped by the foot of Eragon's bed.

"Drakefyre," He bowed. The Elf lifted his head, and eyed Saphira.

"_Eldunra" _ He said, and Saphira unfurled her wings slightly.

"Lord Vayim." She greeted, with her actual voice.

"I was told you have awakened. King Orrin will see you soon, Drakefyre. No doubt Saphira has informed you of your current fate . . ."

Lord Vayim outstretched his hand towards Eragon.

"Yes, I can feel it. It watches, Eragon. It watches everything. Has it spoken to you? Has it shown itself?" Lord Vayim questioned.

Eragon remembered the voices, remembered the crouched shadow at his bed.

"It speaks in a language I do not understand. I saw . . .," Eragon closed his eyes as he felt shards of pain cut at his throat.

"I saw something sitting at my bed. A black being, with yellow teeth and a mouth full of blood." He finished, gasping as sweat beaded down his face.

"A spiteful spirit. When a Shade possesses a living soul, you can tell the nature of the dominant spirit within it by the color of its hair. Dark red dignifies a malicious creature. Blue means it is benevolent, and green declares that the shade is more neutral in persona, not prone to doing evil or good."

Lord Vayim strode towards Eragon, and delicately gathered a portion of Eragon's long hair. The Elf held the strands before Eragon's eyes, and Eragon could see the bright red streaks that ran through his brown locks.

"The Shade nearly succeeded in possessing you. Had it been successful . . . I doubt any of us would be here. A dragon-rider Shade is a dangerous thing. Due to the connection shared between Rider and Dragon, it would be able to corrupt Saphira, as well."

Lord Vayim backed away from Eragon, and he felt his hair lightly slap against his cheek.

"Saphira has told me that there is no way to free my body of this spirit."

Vayim nodded solemnly.

"Freeing you of the spirit now would be akin to pulling your skeleton away from your muscle. If you wish to live, it cannot be done. It is as much a part of you as your blood is. My condolences, Drakefyre." Vayim bowed his head once more. The door opened yet again, and Vayim moved aside as Orrin entered the chamber, with the dwarf Prince Orik and more elves. Among them was Arya. Eragon's heart nearly jumped at the sight of her. Her hair had grown longer, beautiful and mysterious, while her slim body was dressed in dark brown leggings with a tunic that hugged her chest. White Sleeves ran down her arms, while a small crown hugged her head. Bright eyes regarded Eragon with the cold indifference common in Elves.

"Eragon Drakefyre," Orrin greeted. He reached for Eragon's hand, and took it strongly.

"Your success in battle has resulted in our victory."

"A grim victory." Prince Orik grumbled.

Orrin's face softened. Blonde hair fell down to the King's earlobes, while a yellow cape hung over his left shoulder and traveled down to the bottom of his feet. A sword shined at his belt, and a massive crown sat atop his head. Eragon noticed then, shy in Orrin's shadow a comely dwarf woman, her head at the curve of his shoulder. She wore regal dressings, a jade-colored dress. The draping covered most of her body, save for a square cut-out, lined with diamonds, above her breasts. She looked at Eragon with solemn black eyes, almost as big as dinner plates.

"Prince Orik speaks true. During the battle . . . we lost a valuable prisoner, and many of our mages defected. Fifteen thousand now lie dead . . . many of them dwarves. We will still march . . . " Orrin trailed off, looking like a young man instead of a brave King. He repositioned his crown on his head.

"Was it the Empire?" Eragon asked. One of the elves answered him.

"We do not know. But we came here to discuss something of higher importance. We know you are weak, Eragon. But you must make your way to Du Welden Varden. The situation . . . has grown more dire."

"What has happened?" Eragon watched as a brown-skinned elf stiffened.

"The Sealed Elves have betrayed us. They are attacking the Xoshan elf lands. Many of their Aurosa have fallen already. Dark powers aide them, Eragon. For now, the war in Du Welden Varden has reached a stalemate, and we Laen Elves are fortunate that the destruction has not reached us. Which is why you must go to train with Oromis now, while he still lives, and while the Laen Elves still exist as a society."

"Orrin has agreed to allow a portion of Laen Elf generals to leave with their men to support the war that has gripped our homeland. Sealed Elves still loyal to us will come as well." Another Elf informed.

Arya stepped forth then, a few elves parting away so she could be seen. Her jade green eyes settled on Eragon's, and her fine lips parted as she spoke.

"We must depart immediately, Eragon. We have been dealt a grievous blow, and your human lords will have to contend with Galbatorix while we reclaim what was lost to us. The Sealed will pay for their treachery." Arya said, her fine hands curling into fists.

(A/N) Soo a quick thing. Working on the lore, and as you can tell, I renamed the elves.

High Elves (Arya, Islanzadi, etc) Are now called "Laen Elves)

Wood Elves (Solembum, Elonenbum, etc) Are now called Xoshan Elves)

Dark Elves (Herzig, Danziig, etc) Are now called Sealed Elves)


	63. Chapter 54

Vermal watched as Tronjheim rebuilt itself. Many races may look down on dwarves, but they could not insult their industriousness. The stone gate was nearly complete, and many buildings and apartments had been repaired well enough that the cities people could return to their homes. However, the Varden's forces still lingered. Food stores were running low, and among the poorer districts, dwarves were in open revolt. In the middle and higher castes, the dwarib were still calm and peaceable, but the continued presence of the human and elf forces put even the most tolerant dwarib on edge.

"It seems everything has played into your hand." Vermal turned away from the massive hole that was carved from a circular and hollowed-out stalagmite that hung high above the underground metropolis. In the chamber, his uncles, various first sons, and their _first sons_ sat on a long table. The one that spoke was named Fermen Nyste, a dwarib with a gray beard and a thin nose. Fermen's head was bald, and Vermal could see his shined reflection off of the pale skull of his kinsman.

"Yes. Better than I had expected. Our agents have done well." Vermal stated as he took his place at the head of the table. He was the _Eoitog_ of the Nyste, a merchant leader. He led them in trade endeavors, marriage alliances, and investments. Due to the wealth the Nyste had invested into the Royal Bank, he was next in line to the Throne should Prince Orik and the King die. Due to this, he had become the de facto Prime Minister as well, managing various kingly duties when the Gun-nam was occupied with other matters.

"The attack was unexpected. But we adapted, like we always have." Nune Nyste stated with a strong voice. He was Vermal's cousin, and nearly twice as ambitious. Young and handsome, he was a threat to Vermal's own desires. Vermal did not know how to deal with Nune just yet, but Vermal knew he had to remove the young _eharib _before Vermal himself was caught in an elegant trap concocted by his crafty cousin. Vermal narrowed his eyes at Nune, who sat uncomfortably close to the head seat.

"Yes. The poor are agitated beyond repair. After the Varden forces leave . . . they will be ours to claim. Loe, have you put together the numbers for the relief effort?" Vermal inquired. Loe, an older uncle, nodded dumbly.

"Yes. We have successfully been able to evade the food distribution act. We still have more than enough food. Once the Varden leaves, we will be able to feed the poor of the city." Loe affirmed.

"And they will be indebted to us. To our cause." Vermal smiled, stroking his chin.

"Eoitog Vermal . . . . news from the South Sea." The youngest Nyste, a glorified messenger boy named Keo rose his tiny and shaken voice.

"Our ships . . . have been destroyed." He declared, lifting a piece of parchment as his hands shook uncontrollably.

Vermal's alarms went off immediately.

"_Destroyed? _Let me see the paper before you sodden it with your disgusting sweat."

Keo passed the sheet down, and each Nyste eyed it quietly before handing it off to the next one. Finally, it arrived in Vermal's hands. He looked down at the tattered and ripped sheet with critical eyes.

_I do not know if this will reach the capital. As I write this, I watch our merchant ships burn. Corsairs with black flags began attacking us early in the month, and what started as small skirmishes that we could throw off have turned into full-scale naval battles that we constantly lose. The message gulls we send are shot down almost immediately by marksmen. Beyonders, by the look of them. I hurry to write this message because one of our trade ships burns black smoke, which may cover the gull long enough to reach Kamal. They seem to be attacking every dwarven trade fleet, not just ours. I do not know how the ships in the Dragon Sea fair . . . but we have already lost millions. What's more . . . it seems they are paving a way towards our colonies. I have no idea how they were discovered. I fear that they will reach the settlements before reinforcements arrive. The colonies are largely forgotten, as dwarib no longer care to relocate to them, but still, a sizable if not stagnant population live in the New World, and if these pirates reach them, they will discover what we are building. They will discover the weapon. _

_Send help- Oarfin Seawave _

Vermal looked up from the paper, and saw the expectant eyes of his family members.

He reached into his robes, and pulled his dagger from a concealed sheath. With a snarl, he stabbed at the wooden table, screaming as bits of precious overland oak sprayed about them. He stopped, his hair in disarray as sweat fell down from his forehead.

"Someone in the South has made a grave mistake."

(LINEBREAK)

Eragon stepped into a very different city.

Olan had been ruined. Buildings that were black and charred clung to the earth like starving men gasping for air, while once-proud cathedrals bore smashed windows, with doors that were hacked and broken into. Soldiers patrolled the streets, while hungry-looking homeless huddled underneath blankets while men pushing carts dispersed rationed meals.

"It feels wrong leaving all of this behind." Eragon said as they rode past. His original party had grown from just Brom, Arya, and Saphira. Aerion had decided to join them, considering the Empire's renewed offensive blocked their way to the North. The Xoshan elf girl, Elonubum, had joined them as well. Surprisingly, Prince Orik had demanded to come, having grown sick of the underground world he would soon rule.

"It is for a greater cause. What you see here will be all of Alagaesia if we do not increase our own strength." Arya responded, her horse nickering as wind blew old ashes into their faces. Lord Yorbar himself was not even present- He had relocated the capital to a nearby settlement that was untouched. Olan was policed by the military now, and rebuilding efforts were depressingly slow. King Orrin had requested the help of the dwarves, but they refused, saying that they must focus on their own before they came to the aid of the humans.

Saphira walked with the horses, nearly as big as them now. She looked at the destroyed city with wide eyes, the entire area underneath the shadow of the great mountains behind them.

"What is it like? Du Welden Varden?" Eragon inquired as they came to the massive hole the _Shade _had created months ago. It was unrepaired, a breech as large as two massive storehouses that broke the uniform appearance of the great walls of Olan. Arya's eyes livened up slightly as she answered Eragon.

"Peaceful. There is always music playing, at least in the High Elven prefectures. Fresh water travels across the lands with elf-made springs and tributaries, so even the poorest of us have clean drink. Food is plentiful, and white pillared structures line cobbled roads that move over raised hills and low valleys like a beautiful pale river."

Their horses stepped over the broken wall easily as they stepped between two gigantic stone slabs. The _s_pirit within Eragon seemed to move as they slowly made their way past the wall, and Eragon could feel it _looking _at the ruined barrier. It spoke then, slowly within Eragon's mind, speaking that strange tongue that filled him with unease.

"Pft. What you must see is the Xoshan wood marches. Much more magnificent than the boring Laen settlements."

Elonubum flashed Eragon a wicked grin.

"Maybe during the summer fertility , I could show you." She winked at Eragon handsomely, and he blushed as Arya regarded the brown-skinned elf with annoyance.

"And how would you do that with the Sealed ravaging your vaunted woods?" She challenged. Elonubum's smile crashed into an angry grimace as her dark eyes narrowed.

"They said that the Sealed were being held back. Even during war, we always celebrate Summer Fertility. That is the one shared thing among the elves. I believe even the Sealed will halt their attacks during that time." Elonubum stated, her voice losing volume. Arya didn't respond, and Elonubum fell back somewhat, slowing her horse to the point that now Arya and Eragon led the front of their small fellowship.

"That wasn't very nice." Eragon said quietly. Arya gave him a side-ways glance, and then returned her eyes to the flat fields before them.

"I do not have time for the lusts of Xoshan elves, and neither do you." Arya said with finality. They rode silently for a time, and Saphira took off, flying high into the sky as her wide wings spread like sails. Eragon saw a small smile curl at Arya's lips, a sort of youthfulness in her beautiful face that Eragon had never seen.

They passed through rolling hills and flat valleys, and Eragon remembered some places as they had passed them on their first journey to Olan. All of that seemed so far away, some distant memory as new challenges came forth to test him. They came upon the hill that overlooked a large portion of the valley, and gave a beautiful clear vista of the Mountains that hid Olan from view.

"So much changes in the lives of men. But it seems the environment remains the same." Aerion reflected wistfully. Eragon heard Brom grunt in agreement, and the young Rider felt his heart gladden. Brom was alive. That was all he could have ever asked for. Eragon wondered where Roran was, wondered if he was well. He knew that Roran would be fighting against this _M_orzan, and he hoped with all of his heart that Roran would emerge victorious. Eragon remembered the burned body of Garrow, he saw the faces of the countless dead who were murdered in Caravhall. He saw Katrina, Roran's muse, blush as Roran spoke to her, and he smiled as he realized he had been the one who goaded Roran to speak to her. All of these things were in the past however, and now Eragon knew he must look towards the future.

"Can we stop for a moment?" Eragon asked. His party halted behind him, as Arya continued going on for a few paces, before finally turning in annoyance.

"What could be so important that you must delay our journey?" She demanded. Eragon smiled sadly, dismounting.

"We've been focused on the war that we've forgotten a part of ourselves." Eragon bent down and plucked a blade of yellow grass from warm dirt.

"I never buried Garrow." He said, his eyes growing watery as Brom and Aerion joined him on the ground.

Eragon bent over, and dug a small hole at the top of the hill. Beyond, hundreds of miles away, the tall mountains watched as the sun set slowly behind the jagged shoulders of the tall rock. The sky was painted in a cast of dark orange, the last vestiges of light focusing in on Eragon's hand, bringing a heavenly color to the grass he held between his fingers.

"Goodbye, Garrow." He said softly, dropping the yellow grass into the hole. He raised himself up, looking at the various beings that surrounded him. Saphira landed near Eragon softly, looking at him with concerned eyes. Brom bent over suddenly, picking up a sliver of grass. He nodded gravely at Eragon, and then dropped it into the hole.

"For countless loved ones and many more innocents." He said softly. Aerion did the same, adding another blade of grass to the hole. He named no one and uttered no words, but his eyes shone beneath a veil of water.

Elonubum wiped her eyes with her tanned arm as she placed grass into the hole, smiling with beautiful sorrow.

"_Brother." _She rasped, and Eragon's heart leapt for her, remembering the bear he had ridden during the battle. Prince Orik regarded the hole with grave respect, before placing two blades of grass in the hole.

"My society does not respect secondsons. But I lost two during the fight against the Shade's horde." He stated softly.

Suddenly, Arya brushed past Eragon, and glared into the hole. Her eyes counted the pile of grass within it, before she added her own.

"Evander. I will avenge you. I will return honor to the name _Valbhorethlian." _

They stood in silence as their horses snorted at bugs that came with the growing dark. Eragon raised his eyes and saw the last beacon of light vanish beyond the massive mountains, and he let out a cry as tears wrenched themselves free of his eyes. He sobbed silently, not bothering to wipe his cheeks as they were stained and wetted. The grief of his life hit him all at once. Garrow, Caravhall, and countless other tragedies. The faces he had seen as he and Brom passed by towns ravaged by Urgals, and the sadness in the starving citizens of Olan. He heard a rasp, and opened his eyes to see Arya crying as well. She turned away from him, but Orik approached the center of their semi-circle, which had formed around the hole. He delicately brushed dirt over the makeshift burial, and then rose to his full height.

"My people have a song for the departed." He said. The dwarf Prince opened his mouth, and slowly a beautiful melody sprung forth, dancing on his tongue before they drifted from between his lips. His song seemed to sway and waver beautifully in the air of dawn, rising high and then low, moving between ears with ease and grace. When he finished, all of them had tear-stained cheeks, even Brom. The song evoked sadness, but there was more. Within it a small glimmer of hope was found, hope that Eragon was determined to grip onto. He would not allow himself to fail. He would grow stronger, and he would assist the Varden and avenge those that had fallen. His heart was filled with determination, determination that Saphira could feel. The Spirit could feel it as well, and Eragon allowed himself a smile as he felt the being shy away from Eragon's courage.

Just then, a figure stumbled upon them. A man with bright blue hair and tattered clothing approached, moving so silently that none of them heard the man until he was right next to them. Eragon reached for his weapon as his allies followed his action, and the blue-haired man raised his hands.

"We – I mean no harm." He said hurriedly as Arya pressed the point of her blade at his pale throat.

"My- My name is Cambion. I mean no harm."

Arya looked at the being, and then firmed her grip on the blade she held.

"Look. It's a _Shade. _The skin. The hair." She commented.

Eragon could see it now. There was an unnatural paleness to the Shade, and the hair was too blue to be dyed. The Shade looked at Eragon knowingly, and he felt the Spirit within him jump with anger. Eragon doubled over as the Spirit racked his body, attempting to move his muscles so that he would strike the Shade.

"I can help you, if you allow me. I can help you control it." Cambion said as Eragon rolled on the ground.

"_Vaenis domanu." _Cambion whispered, and the Spirit within Eragon calmed. He slowly rose, helped up by Prince Orik, who held his axe ready with his free hand.

Arya lowered her sword slowly from Cambion, and the Shade looked at her neutrally.

"He needs me." Cambion stated. Eragon knew that well enough. Before Arya could respond, he answered for their entire party.

"You can come with us." He granted, and Cambion _smiled, _almost handsomely.

Arya sheathed her blade violently, frowning at Eragon.

"I will leave you to explain to the Laen why you bring a Shade among them." She said as she mounted her horse. Eragon shook his head and grinned as he stepped into his saddle, girding his horse as Saphira took up space beside him. Cambion did as well, looking at Saphira with interest.

"A dragon. A queer sight." Cambion said conversationally. The way the Shade spoke and how human yet _unhuman _it was caused Eragon to erupt in laughter. After a few moments, Brom did as well. Soon, everyone began to chortle with joy, and even Arya graced them with a long suffering smirk . Cambion looked around, dumbly, and began laughing too- but even the way he _laughed _was off, causing them to be thrown into another fit. Finally, the humor subsided, and Arya urged her horse onward. Behind them was death and destruction. Ahead of them, the same horrors waited, but with those terrible things, hope shined.

"Let's go." Arya commanded, and with that, the newly formed fellowship made their way east, towards the homeland of the Elves.

_THE END _

_(A/N) Well, I actually never thought I'd finish this. The first rewrite is done. I want to thank everyone that enjoyed this, despite my rushed chapters, continuity errors, and spelling mistakes. I will continue the rewrite series with Eldest, but I want to basically go through every chapter and correct any errors and then finish the lore, so it may be about two weeks until I start Eldest. SO DON'T UNFOLLOW! THE STORY ISN'T FINISHED! Anyway, for those of you who stayed, congrats. It only gets better from this point onwards. _


	64. ANNOUNCEMENT!

WELP. I have finished the first part of the history and lore. You can find it by searching "HISTORIAN'S CODEX" in the Inheritance fanfiction form. OR, you can click on my time and find it there. ALSO, in terms of discussion, if you have any questions/comments not pertaining to any chapter but just to the fanfic itself, please send them to the Historian's Codex. I will be able to answer the questions there, without flooding the main story thread with new posts not relevant to the cycle.


	65. Eldest Chapter I

- **ELDEST -**

MORZAN'S eyes narrowed as he looked at the army marching over the rolling hills of the north. Men held tall banners, each one flapping violently in the spring wind. Hishorse nickered, tapping its hoof on the mushy ground. Morzan heard a rustle of movement, and turned his head sideways while his second-in command, Hern Geisa, took up space beside him.

"Another victory, My Lord?" Hern asked, his voice muffled by the black full-helm he wore over his head. Morzan returned his critical eye to the rebel army before them. He lifted his pointed chin, and he could feel the soft touch of his long black hair as it was pushed forward, caressing his neck and cheeks.

"Yes. It will not be long until we make up for Lord Geron's blunders." Morzan muttered, shifting his grip on the reigns of his warhorse. A black cloak fluttered about his body like a crow attempting to take flight as Morzan's force grew behind him. Hundreds of knights rode astride black stallions as nearly a thousand footmen marched in their dusty aftermath, steel spears pointed towards the heavens. Archers sneaked behind the wall of soldiers, ready to offer devastating projectile damage while protected by their brothers-in-arms.

"The one who defeated Lord Geron . . . his name is _Magebane, _is it not?" Hern inquired. Morzan's mouth curled downwards as the rebel army ceased their advance.

"That is what the smallfolk say. A foolish name."

"There may be some truth to it. Lord Geron is no fool, My Lord Morzan. This Magebane must have some power if he was able to defeat Geron."

If Geron hadn't failed, the war in the north would have been over by now. Geron was sent to invade the far northern settlements, while Morzan would march for the closer castles. The plan had been for Geron to stall the far north while Morzan cut through the rebel lords who presided closer to the west. After Morzan defeated them, he was to join Geron, and smash the northern rebellion on two fronts.

But Geron had been defeated, and the remnants of his army turned to join the enemy.

"Magebane will fail, and then he will die." Morzan turned his head towards Geron.

"Sound the charge." Morzan commanded. Hern gave Morzan a questioning look, but did as he was bid, gripping the bullhorn that was tied to his neck and blowing on it with all of his might, face growing red in exertion. Morzan unclipped his cape, and urged his horse running forward, into the enemy line. Behind him, his knights galloped, lances drawn down as the rebel army answered Morzan's charge with their own. Morzan reigned in his horse to a halt, and carefully plucked off an ebony-colored glove as the thundering step of hooves was heard closer from his front and back. Morzan regarded a pale hand, and then watched as small orbs of fire sprouted from each of his fingers. The red circles of flame then rose into the air, growing larger as they did so. The enemy knights were nearly upon them, so close that Morzan could see the spittle dangling from the open mouths of their heavy steeds. Unlike the light cavalry of the west, northern armies employed hardened stallions, thick and corded with muscle. Morzan leapt from his saddle as his horse was run through by a mounted spearman. He flew over the shiny helmets of his knights as they met the rebel charge, crashing together in an orchestra of screams while blood painted the ground. Morzan landed on his feet, drawing his sword as infantrymen ran past him.

Zar'roc. He remembered when he crafted the blade, remembered toiling under the watchful and shrill elf Rhunon. He had been thirteen when Murtaghen hatched for him, and he was fourteen when he crafted Zar'roc with the help of Rhunon. When he was fifteen, he used that same blade to fell Riders much older than he, joining Galbatorix during his own rebellion, one that lasted for ten years, and then was given one hundred in peace. Now, war erupted again, and Morzan looked a mere five years older than he had been before. During his long life, Zar'roc was the only constant. Everyone else either betrayed him, or died.

An enemy knight broke free from the mounted mosh of battle, and charged at Morzan. The fallen Rider lifted his naked hand and caught the lance that was meant for his heart. Morzan slid backwards as the horse's powerful legs dug into the dirt, the point of the lance slowly tearing through Morzan's hand. He looked up at the knight who attacked him, and muttered a single word.

"_Brisina." _ He whispered, and the man suddenly lurched forward as his body was engulfed with flame that ate away at his insides. The horse whinnied and then reared, Morzan allowing it to pass, dropping his sword and holding his arm as the lance that impaled his palm was wrenched free. He called his sword back into his hands, one of which was now slick with warm blood.

His knights had been able to turn away the rebel troops, and his army was advancing on their enemy's main force. Morzan knew that somewhere within the carnage, Hern directed his troops with grace and courage, a seemingly impossible feat for one in the center of hell. Morzan stepped into the ground, abandoned dead and dying lying about like uncollected cut trees. The scene of battle had shifted behind the enemy line, and Morzan watched from a slight incline in the land as his warriors fought in the low-valley the rebels had decided to charge from.

Morzan grinned. Had they simply _stayed _there instead of charging, they would have been able to deal heavier losses- but now Morzan could tell they were faltering. Westmen were more disciplined and well-trained than Northern savages.

_Hern. Call back your men. _

Morzan lifted his bleeding hand to the sky as the imperial army engaged in a mock rout. Knights belonging to him sped over the hill, backs flattened against their horses. The knights usually survived. Morzan regarded the few foot soldiers that lingered behind, some turning to fight the now-emboldened rebels. As Hern came upon him, Morzan lowered his bleeding hand.

Five streaks of light suddenly landed into the mass of soldiers, and the illuminations lingered in existence, ethereal and filled with mysterious beauty. The first of the Forsworn closed his eyes as he felt the increase in air pressure. He opened them again as sound ceased, glowing white orbs of heated air churning into the ground, expanding. The orbs drew wind back within it, and Morzan stuck himself to the ground as tall grass leaned towards the phenomena. Sound returned then, and as it did, the land was painted red and orange as five separate explosions came roaring into life, engulfing friend and foe. Morzan's dark eyes reflected the image of scattered fires across the land, while charred corpses were thrown about around five large craters, flame dancing along the curved circumference of the impact zones. A lone flag, propelled by recess energy, floated towards Morzan. He caught it in his hand, and saw the half-ruined sigil of the Varden : A blue eagle spread over a green field. The flag curled in Morzan's hands as azure colored fire ate away at it, until there was nothing left but ash. Morzan overturned his hand while Hern came up on him, still mounted.

"Another victory." He said, helmet covered with smut and sweat.

"How many of ours were caught in the fire?" Morzan asked as he felt himself grow unsteady. The spell was a powerful one, and he had used it for the sixth time in only two weeks. He would need to rest soon.

"By the looks of it, only one hundred or so. Mostly spearmen." Hern informed. Morzan nodded as he watched the pile of ash he dropped scatter in the wind, while five separate clouds of smoke lazily rose into the clear sky.

_I am waiting for you, Magebane. And when I meet you in battle, you will die as your allies have here. _


	66. Eldest Chapter II

This is a chapter. Just wanted to address some questions that were asked . . . . BUT BEFORE THAT! Please, PLEASE use the inheritance codex thread for your questions so I don't keep having to preface chapters with these "author's notes". But anyway, here are your answers.

Yeah, I see where you're coming from since I said I was going to do 3 books instead of 4. However, this book will mostly cover Eldest, and then parts of brisingr will be split between Eldest and Inheritance. So, since this book is MOSTLY eldest as opposed to brisingr, the name of this post is Eldest.

YES I KNOW! I'm using a program called cartographer 3 to make the map but I kinda lost interest in doing it because I didn't think anyone really cared anymore. But, seeing as you care (which means there are probably some people who care as well but just don't say anything) so I will start that anew. The program is somewhat confusing (for me) so yeah I'll have to study more tutorials. Also, where would I put it? As far as I know (And forgive me if I'm wrong, I am new to the site) You can't post images on here I think? And it's a pain to link things . . . I would have to start a website (there are tons of free places) or put it up on an image sharing website . . . which is kinda lame. So the map itself isn't a problem, finding a place for it is . . .

I thought about making a new thread. But I REALLY loathe to let go of all of these views . . . I was personally thinking of finishing Eldest in the same thread as the first book and then starting a new one for inheritance.

**-ELDEST CHAPTER 2-**

Killian walked along the deck of his flagship, _Asoria. _Large black sails were engorged with wind as they pulled ahead of thick cross-shaped masts. All about him a diverse crew of Beyonders, Westmen, and even a few Dwarves scurried against the slick oak flooring of the ship. They were a fleet of forty vessels, crossing the semi-charted South Sea, thousands of miles away from the ports of Kamal and even further from Surda. As he passed men they either straightened or began to work vigorously, unnecessarily tugging at tied rope or finding something of interest away from where Killian was. He wore a new mask- a black and red visage with small circles that fit the size of his own eyes perfectly. Curving horns sprouted from either side of the mask, which snugly fit over his entire face and upper neck while black mesh trailed down the lower portions of his collar and over his shoulders. A dark red cape waved like the sails above and the seas below, clasped to his back by iron pins. A staff was strapped behind the cape, and a medium-sized steel rod that had a long sickle as a head hung heavily from his belt.

"Captain _Teslyn,_ more ships ahead." A voice broke Killian's fixed concentration on the seas that ruled all around them.

"Which guild?" Killian asked, opening a gloved hand to retrieve the eyeglass that was presented to him.

Killian lifted the item, fitting the long telescope over his pupil.

"I'm not sure. Looks like Nyste." The young sailor answered, and Killian could sense the boy shaking in his shadow.

"Have the ballistae loaded and strung. Send word to _Victory _and _Langtis _, have them stay behind the horizon. Whoever our victims are, they believe we are alone. Let's allow them to cling to that false reality." Killian turned away from the man, dropping the telescope onto the deck. He strode back near his cabin, but then walked up the fleet of stairs that hugged the chambers on the outside. He found his dwarven navigator, a creature named Barnacle Shark. Killian had refused to address the dwarf by such a nonsensical name, and despised the fact that _secondsons _renamed themselves after the trade in which they took up when reaching adulthood.

"The spotter says there is another Nyste ship ahead." Killian stated, and Barnacle twirled the wheel of the vessel, then gripping the smooth wood harshly, ending the wheel's rotation with an audible _chunk. _

"I figured as much. We're getting close, though." Barnacle said, yellow teeth shining in the light of the sun.

"The New World." Killian narrowed his eyes. He had needed dwarves to read the map, and found many willing to turn on their own people. Some of them were desperate secondsons who had been expelled from their Guilds . . . but Killian was paranoid by nature. On this ship he was surrounded by potential enemies, and Barnacle was among the most dangerous. He was in a position of power- If Killian killed him, they would be lost a sea. Killian needed him to steer the ship, and Killian required the creature to reach The New World. Due to this, Barnacle was not expendable, and therefore not under Killian's complete control.

"Yes, The New World. I've never seen it . . . but I've heard people talk of it. Seems like there's _humans _there, too, if you'd believe it. Squinty-eyed munts, with yellowish skin. Some of em' even got hair that's yellower than their flesh. Seen some of em getting sold at Kamal."

Killian had seen that as well, and was again annoyed by Orrin's ineptness. The Langfeld-ruled Surda had outlawed slavery like the mainland, but the laws were not enforced. Trade routes were choked with new shipments of slaves, and the trade would only grow more profitable with the war brewing. And with profit, comes corruption. Killian curled his hands into fists.

"The Nyste ship is raising sail. They're speeding up to us." Barnacle said as his voice filled with excitement. Killian nodded, hopping from the Barnacle's station above the cabin and onto the upper deck below.

"I do not want the ship damaged badly. Kill the crew. Hold your fire initially, and then release the grappling gun. They will have supplies."

There were various grunts as crew members rushed about the deck, which buzzed with hurried chatter. Killian stood amongst it all, his cape billowing around his body. Killian reached behind his back, and then whipped the staff he carried into his palm. He planted the long redwood staff on the floor of the deck, and allowed his hidden power to exude somewhat. The energy from within his body slowly ebbed out, and his crew would notice that they worked a little harder, moved somewhat faster, and their minds a tad sharper than before. The Nyste ship circled around them, and the closer the Nyste got, the clearer Killian could see the ship's crew. However, the Nyste sailed in the direction of the sun, and the celestial body would hide the rest of Killian's fleet until it was too late.

The two ships turned in the water, churning the liquid as they were pushed closer by cool winds. Sails flapped against masts as the first shot was fired. The Nyste released a massive quarrel directly at _Asoria's _hull . . . but then found that the quarrel was pulled into the sea by invisible hands.

"Fire the hook!" Killian screamed, and then fixed his eyes on the Nyste ship, keen former Rider's eyes . . . He would not need the telescope at this distance. The hook flew from the side-mounted ballistae, a whoosh of sea-air pressing against Killian's mask as it was hurled at the Nyste, a thick corded rope trailing after it. The hook crashed against the Nyste vessel, and the boat lurched to the right as the hook unfurled and stuck itself within the ship's bowels. Two muscular dwarves then began reeling the rope back to the Asoria. The reeling mechanism's metal gears grinded as the crew readied weapons. Killian himself drew his sickle, now armed in both hands. He stepped forward on one foot, and bounced on his heels, allowing the sickle to dangle between his fingers.

The Nyste ship dragged across water, before finally it was in walking distance. The now-shortened rope was taut across the two boats, and Nyste men aimed crossbows at the Asoria.

Just then, _Victory _came rolling into view, while Langtis followed in its watery wake. The Nyste crew flustered as they caught sight of the two ships coming in from their rear.

"Attack!" Killian roared as dwarves and men answered his call, scampering across the rope. Crossbows released quarrels that caught themselves in their bodies, and some of them fell into the water below. The enemy crew's crossbowmen were cut down by Killian's forces as they loaded the ship, and Killian followed them across the rope. Weapons at the ready, he vaulted across to the boat, bouncing on the rope with one foot and landing on the Nyste deck with a flourish that removed two Nyste of their heads. He turned with a roar, swinging his staff across the chest of a dwarf who ran at him with a massive ax. The dwarf blundered as the wood crashed against him, and Killian swung his sickle into the dwarf's head. It let out a high-pitched yelp, and fell to the bloodied deck as Killian retrieved his weapon from the newly made corpse's head. He turned on his heels, just in time for a crossbow quarrel to hit him squarely in the chest. Killian gasped, dropping his staff as he felt blood travel into his mouth. Another quarrel crashed into his shoulder, pulling the cloth of his cape closer to his body as the projectile dug into his flesh. Killian grunted, running forward as his attacker hastily reloaded his crossbow. Killian threw the sickle across the deck, and the weapon cut through the crossbowmen's forehead. Around him, the Nyste died as his crew fought off the brave survivors. Killian fell over, placing his hands on the deck, trying to lift himself. He found he didn't have enough strength, his hands sliding on warm puddles of blood.

"I've waited a while for this." A voice above him said. Killian looked up, and saw one of his own standing over him, curved blade ready. The man ripped Killian's mask away, and gasped when he saw Killian's ruined face. However, Killian was too weak to use this opportunity to attack, and simply watched the man's face change from horror to grim amusement.

"Di-" The man found the head of a quarrel sticking from his mouth as he choked on his own blood. He fell over, and in his shadow Killian saw a small Beyonder boy, no older than thirteen years.

"What's your name," Killian rasped. Red hair waved before the young boy's black face as he spoke, hiding his dark eyes.

"Rem," He answered as he helped Killian up, his blood painting the deck.

"Why?" Killian asked. Killian had done nothing to warrant the boy saving his life.

"That man's name is Rhoen. He raped me some nights before." Rem said matter-of-factly.

"I know some healing techniques. My mother taught me." Rem informed, as he leaned Killian against the railing of the Nyste Deck.

Killian remembered his surprise when he felt the familiar yet somehow long forgotten sensation of magic spells stitching his skin together, but then everything was cast in a dark shadow while the ocean greedily swallowed the corpses of the Nyste crewmen while they were turned overboard.


	67. Eldest chapter III

(A/N) Thank you, Evatross! And buy the amazon book at your own risk . . . I dumbly posted it hastily, and I haven't gotten around to correcting the errors found within . . . It is still readable, and I believe most of the grammatical/spelling mistakes are only at the beginning . . . but still be warned. I mean it's only a dollar but I would be ashamed if that's the first original work you've read by me . . . Also I shall take a peaky weaky at your work since you asked. Anyway, I'm playing around with a new concept: A Japanese detective trying to find out the reason behind a string of murders during the Eastern World Health Conference of 2016 (MADE UP BY ME OBVIOUSLY) and I REALLY need to work on my twilight fanfic . . . anyway, thanks for the reviewwwww. To everyone else, ERAGON is coming, but I want to establish everyone else first. Eragon WILL come after this chapter. But I feel like many of you will enjoy what you're about to read A LOT… hopefully.)

-ELDEST CHAPTER III-

"How many can you smell?"

Solembum lifted his feline nose to the air. He sniffed gingerly, the ripe stench of deer filling his black and wet nostrils as bright green springrass waved between him and his hunting companion, a witch-girl of fourteen summers named Elva.

"Ten." Solembum answered as he turned his head and regarded the girl. She was an _Impori, _west-humans who refused to join the Langfeld Empire ages past. They were made up of witches, warlocks, and barbarians, dressing in a queer fashion, wearing armor crafted of thick ash wood while painting their skin in fearsome designs. Elva herself was painted- Underneath each of her gray-blue eyes, dark streaks of purple descended down all the way to the corner of her small mouth, while ebony snakes curled around her thin arms, mouths open at her slim wrists. She wore a loose black tunic that revealed her left shoulder, while a small skirt circled around her hips. Underneath that, her legs were garbed in similarly colored leather trousers, while her feet stood comfortably in well-fashioned deer-hide boots.

"Angela said we won't need more than three." Elva whispered, drawing the bow she carried over her shoulder, and then taking three arrows from her quiver. Solembum pressed his paws against the earth, the rush of the hunt beginning to course through his body.

_It has been too long. _

"Let's hunt." Solembum said with a flash of his teeth, pounding ahead. Elva silently ran alongside him, jumping away from tree trunks and climbing over them when they could not be avoided. She truly was a being of the forest, and Solembum marveled at how well she leapt from tree to tree, and then to the ground, only to find herself in the trees again. Her movements silent, she was one of the best hunters of the Impori.

Aside from him, of course.

Solembum's nose twitched as he grew closer to their prey. They ran across a coursing stream that cut through the woods, while the sun shone through a fragmented shield of trees. Weeds and bushes waved in the wind, while birds chirped talkatively as Solembum and Elva moved like determined ghosts. Finally, Solembum saw the small herd. He stopped just one step away from entering the clearing the deer had chosen to feed in, a tiny circular place littered with pink flowers. Above him, Solembum heard Elva as she crawled onto a low-leaning branch.

"What's the plan?" She questioned from above. Solembum thought for a moment while his mouth watered.

He _could _take them all, but he knew Elva wanted to hunt as well. He could smell it off of her, the scent ebbing into his nose like waves onto a salty shore.

"We only need three. I'll take one initially, and then you shoot that straggler at the edge of the belt of trees."

Elva paused for a moment, and then flipped over from the branch, dangling upside down near Solembum's face.

"How do you know it's a straggler?" She asked.

"It's the one closest to the other side of the wood. It'll be a hard shot, but it will be slower than the rest."

"That's two. What about the third?" She said with a smirk.

"We both have magic, we'll figure something out." Solembum answered. Elva flipped back onto the tree branch, and Solembum heard a soft _tst_ as she notched her arrow, and an even softer _creak _as she slowly pulled it backwards.

Solembum darted from their hiding place, and the deer instantly reacted. As he closed his jaws around a hopping leg, he heard the sound of an arrow fly by him. He raised his eyes as he brought his prey down to the grassy ground, and saw that Elva had made two precise shots that killed the crippled deer instantly. He himself moved his mouth to the neck of his own prize, mercifully snapping its neck and ending its pain. Xoshan Elves may eat meat, but they did not torture animals, or kill for sport.

"We need a third." Elva said as she walked up behind Solembum.

"I think you can take care of that. Use your power."

Solembum felt Elva tense.

"I shouldn't . . ."

"Go ahead. You want to use it. No one will know. Except me, of course." Solembum assured, and Elva nodded, stepping forward. Her arms stretched out before her body, while her fingers separated and straightened.

"How far is it?" Solembum inquired.

Sweat beaded down the side of Elva's face, her brows furrowed in concentration.

"Not . . . far." She grimaced. Energy welled around the girl, and Solembum was taken aback by how powerful she was, despite being so young. She would made a good witch, as long as mages did not capture her. Solembum himself had nothing _against _mages, although he disliked how they used _controlled _magic- which is spells wrought about with memorized incantations and hand movements. The difference between mages and witches was that witches used no _spoken _spells, rather they used their own emotions, raw thought, infused with magic principle. It was dangerous, and an unskilled being touched by magic could bring about great harm if they did not know what they were doing. Even a skilled witch could suffer a back-fire, which would tear their body apart as the spell they summoned spiraled out of control. However, it was that proximity to death that gave witches their power, and allowed them to perform skills that would take a mage decades to learn.

An explosion of orange smoke appeared before them, while Elva fell to her knees. Solembum opened his mouth in alarm, but the young girl looked at him through a veil of long black hair.

"I did it." She rasped. Solembum peered into the smoke, and within it saw a freshly killed deer, neck twisted upon itself as it laid down on the green ground.

"You teleported it back here . . . and killed it in the process. Impressive."

"_Very Impressive. _But I wonder why did you have to kill it in such a fashion? And in addition to that, why kill it at all? You already have two. I mean, I _did_ say three . . . but that deer looks like a family man type of deer. Who is going to explain his death to his deerwife and children? These creatures are ill-suited to the task of bearing grim news. They're overly dramatic creatures. You can tell by how they move."

Elva groaned as she rose to her feet.

"Angela." She said, turning and bowing. Solembum turned as well, and then _turned_, black fur receding, revealing light brown skin that covered his athletic body. Straight black hair reached the middle of his back, and his elf-ears curved like horns away from his face.

And he was naked.

"You didn't have to do that just now . . ." Angela said, covering her eyes.

"I wanted to bow to you properly," Solembum answered, and he did indeed bow, and smelled slightly awakened hormones from the two women who stood with him.

"Elva, what did I tell you about using magic?" Angela turned her attention on the girl, blue eyes fixed like fires burning within a beautifully sculpted face framed by two golden waterfalls that cascaded down and pooled underneath a slender neck.

"I- I know. I wanted to try on my own . . . I'm sorry." Elva looked down at her feet, shamed.

"Sorry? That was brilliant! Not only did you, well, um, not _die, but _you succeeded in getting the desired result you wanted. Magic is a fickle thing, and it is no small feat to make it bend to your will."

Elva's small mouth curled into a smile.

"So you aren't mad?"

Angela's smile didn't falter in the slightest.

"No, I am extremely mad. You are not to go out on _any _hunting party until I believe you have learned your lesson. Also, you will be in my line of sight. Always. Now go get the men and have them bring these deer back to camp."

"Yes, _Matraie _Angela." Elva said stiffly, and then sulked back into the woods to retrieve Impori huntesmen.

"What she did was dangerous." Angela said once Elva was out of earshot.

"I saw no harm in it." Solembum responded with a smile. Angela's lip quivered.

"Here's the thing: You're an elf. She isn't. She doesn't have the control that elves naturally possess. Something terribly wrong could have happened. She could have died. Or worse."

Solembum frowned. He didn't understand what she was getting worked up about.

"But nothing happened. I thought being a witch was all about taking risks."

Angela's blue eyes set upon Solembum like daggers.

"_Educated risks. _When I saved you from those Imperials, I only did so because I knew I would win. There was a chance that I would fail, as there always is, but I knew that it was likely that I _wouldn't. _Witches that do things just for risk usually end up dead- Or as _Shades." _

Solembum shivered.

"For Elva's safety, I do not want you around her. You're reckless, arrogant, and an all-around bad influence. She needs to learn restraint, something you lack."

Solembum had seen the girl as a sort of younger sister, and enjoyed talking to her within the camp. He felt anger rise up from within him. But Angela kept her gaze locked on his, and he said nothing.

"I have received word from the south. It seems your princess is alive, and I have half a mind to join her."

_Arya! _

"But your people fled from the Langfelds. Why would you help them crown one?"

Angela began walking away from him, the forest seemingly curling around her, swallowing her whole.

"Because there is something dark coming. More evil than the Forsworn or Galbatorix. The sooner this foolish war is over, the faster the world can recover and be prepared for the true evil that will threaten us all."

Wind rustled past, causing Solembum's hair to dash before his eyes. When he lifted a hand to clear his view, Angela vanished.

Solembum was alone. He curled his hands into fists as he turned back into a panther.

_Arya is alive. I'm glad the little snob got away safely. _

Solembum lazily made his way to camp, knife-like shoulder-blades swaying above his lowered head as he walked.


	68. Eldest Chapter IV

Gold-tipped arrowheads were aimed at them from massive walls that separated the woods from the Elven border fortress of Kel'am. Elven infantrymen lowered spears at their sides, while Eragon's party remained mounted, hands inching near their weapons.

"Put down your arms, you fools. Don't you know who I am?" Arya bellowed as the elven spearmen inched closer. Eragon inspected the walls that loomed over them. They were of white and gold, dozens of feet high, with strange writing inscribed onto the thatched stone. Guards patrolled the battlements, and archers strung arrows, ready to slay Eragon and his entire party at a moment's notice. Elonubum hissed at the elves, while Brom sat on his horse, silent and resigned. Prince Orik swore, his weapon drawn. Cambion lowered his head, blue hair falling over his eyes.

Ancient trees, unscathed from Laen Elf industry this far from the mainland, grew high above them, with trunks as big as carriages with heavy leaves as large as Eragon's head. The sunlight bounced from each tree, traveling downward, jumping from leaf to leaf, until finally it specked onto the ground level of the forest in heavenly rays of bright light.

"_Tiedame alan, Auesame Arya-aftan." _A voice called, low and melodic like the soft beat of a war drum. At the sound of the voice, the elves lowered their weapons somewhat, and Arya shot an annoyed glance up to the fortress walls.

"What did he say?" Eragon whispered, eyes darting from Arya to the tip of a serrated spear that was trained on his heart. Arya grimaced in anger, gripping the reigns of her horse while her face grew red.

"He said that he knows who I am." She spat.

"Then why do they halt us?" Prince Orik questioned, black eyes filled with barely controlled rage.

"I do not know." Arya answered simply, and then rose her pointed chin to the shrouded elf who stood atop the battlements, more prominent than the others.

"_Jost tied kukal olen, mina estaka minua?" _Arya shouted, louder than necessary. The drum-beat voice answered her, and the two Elves conversed, Arya growing more and more enraged with every word spoken from the shrouded figure. Finally, the gate below the shrouded elf opened, but the soldiers made moves towards their weapons. Orik shouted in fury, peeling his axe away from elf hands and striking the being hard across the head. The elf's gilded helmet rang throughout the quiet forest, while the elf himself fell backwards, disorientated as arrows descended upon Orik. Before Eragon could react, the arrows stopped inches away from Orik's opened mouth, his wide eyes fixed on the dozens of arrowheads.

"Let them take your weapons." Arya said softly, her hand outstretched towards Orik. She curled her fingers into fists, and the arrows broke in two as they fell to the ground, useless. Orik grumbled as a new elf retrieved the Prince's ax warily while others came for each member of Eragon's party. Saphira lowered herself to the ground, standing beside Eragon.

_What's going on? _She inquired, her voice surprisingly adult.

_I don't know. I think we're . . . being arrested. _Eragon replied as he handed his sword and shield to a waiting elf. Elonubum gave up her bow and daggers, while Arya herself gave up her slim sword. Brom was last, and he dropped his heavy broadsword to the ground with a thud and a plume of smoke. The elf attending to him glared up at Brom, and then bent over to pick up his weapon. After all this, they were urged inside the Fortress walls, the chain gate setting shut behind them.

_So these are elves. _Saphira said conversationally as the aforementioned beings hurried about them. Some would stop and stare at Saphira, who seemed to absorb all rays of the sparse sunlight that reached the forest floor. They had the same general appearance as Arya: Slanted eyes, bright hair, and tall bodies with long arms. They were dressed brilliantly, blue and red robes wrapping their bodies while their lower mouths were covered by a scarlet scarf. Underneath the robes, however, Eragon saw thin chest-plate armor while their shoulders shined, garbed in spaulders fashioned into lion's mouths. Their arms were armored by belted leather gauntlets, and their legs wore leather breeches with high black boots.

_They're impressed by you. _Eragon said to Saphira as a young-looking elf was knocked by an older one, who had stopped to regard Saphira with violet eyes.

_I am somewhat of an impressive sight, I think. _Despite the strange situation, Eragon grinned.

_Ah, proud are we? _

_If you were a dragon, you would be too. _

As they were herded into the center of the main square, Eragon saw the shrouded elf waiting for them. The square was crafted of fine marble, their horses clicking as they walked upon the surface. Around them wooden towers stood nearly as high as the trees, with flags waving on the turrets. The buildings of the fort were built of birch and stone, impressive foundations that looked like they could stand the test of time and battle. Beyond the marble square, another large wall stood, spreading to the left and right for as far as Eragon's eye could see. Built onto the wall was a second fort-like structure, dual doors standing firm and resolute against the free grass that waved between the marble square and the rest of the ground, which it shared with dwindling gargantuan trees.

As they came closer to the shrouded elf, it removed its hood, and Eragon's eyes widened as he saw an Elf that rivaled Arya in beauty. She had piercing blue eyes, while dark hair fell down into her shoulders. A small mouth pursed as dimples dug into her cheeks, and high cheekbones rose proudly with her face as she looked up to Arya.

"_Auesame Arya-aftan Delana Valbhorethlian," _She said with a deep bow. When she rose, her eyes caught the rest of Arya's party.

"Welcome to Kel'am." She said neutrally, voice deep and richly accented. Eragon nodded his head towards the elf girl-commander who stood before him. She wore the same armors that her men did, but Eragon noticed she did not garb herself in the robes, nor did she wear a scarf. However, a quiver of arrows was found on her back, matched with a fearsome bow behind it. On her belt two short-swords hung, and she tickled the pommels of them as she turned her attention back on Arya.

"I am sorry for the inconvenience. We have our orders. _" _ She said apologetically.

"Orders from whom?" Arya said with a snarl.

"_Auresoma Islanzadi." _The elf girl said with a tint of finality. Arya's face fell as she opened and closed her mouth in surprise.

"Auresoma Islanzadi believed you would take these roads, due to the western entrances blocked from the Sealed Elves rebellion, and she knew you wouldn't take the main entryway, so she had doubled the guard at Kel'am. She waits at Eleena's door." The commander said, pointing to the wall far beyond them.

Arya did not respond to the woman, and she turned her attention to Eragon and the others.

"My name is Deslyewo Aufen, of House Aufen, wardens of Kel'am. If you would follow me please. "

Deslyewo lead them over the marble square and onto the soft grassland that stretched between Kel'am and Eleena's door. The fort-gate seemed to grow larger as they traveled closer to it, and Eragon saw that it even began to cause the ancient trees of the land to seem dwarfed compared to Eleena's massive size. Still guarded by infantry, they came to the dual doors, and the giant wooden frames were pulled open, revealing an ornate building that was a part of the wall. Waiting at the center of the hall was Arya.

Or someone who Eragon mistook as Arya. As he saw the elf woman now, he could see the slight differences. There was an agelessness about her face, and a deeper than normal wisdom glowed from her green eyes. She did not bear the black hair with white-blonde streaks as Arya did, but everything else about her face was almost exactly the same. The eyes, the small but pointed nose, the square jaw . . .

Elven guards stood at the feet of her seat, armed with giant greatswords that bisected their bodies in perfect symmetry. Around them, the room was shaped in a large square, sparsely decorated. Beyond the throne, a long expanse of space stretched until another set of gigantic slabs of wood was found. At Islanzadi's left and right, three elves stood. One on her right hand wore white locks tied into a bun, with skin as black as night and yellow eyes. At her left hand, an elf with brown skin like Elonubum stood with yet another that shared the same look as Arya and Islanzadi.

"Auresoma Islanzadi, your daughter, Auesame Arya." Deslyewo presented, bowing with the rest of her men. Islanzadi simply nodded, and Deslyewo retreated with a soft clink as her armored feet walked across the wooden floor. For a long time that was the only sound as Islanzadi narrowed her eyes at Eragon, Saphira, and the rest of them. Arya looked down at her hands, which gripped the reigns of her nickering horse.

"Arya," Islanzadi said finally. Arya's head shot up, anger in her eyes.

"You see, mother? I have brought you a Rider. Look at how his dragon grows. He will be a magnificent warrior."

The Sealed Elf smirked.

"All I see is a fledgling dragon who has not tasted true battle." He said, and Saphira growled at the Sealed Elf.

"You thought it necessary to involve the Triumvirate?" Arya rasped, her voice taken by fury.

"I did. You say you have brought me a Rider . . . all I see is a green _human _and a newly hatched lizard." Islanzadi spat.

"Open your eyes! This . . . this boy will grow into something great! We have no dragons of our own, and with him we could win the war." Arya said, her hands curling around the rope of her reigns.

"_We_? Dilenu, have you made an official statement of war against Galbatorix?" She asked. The Laen Elf shook his head.

"No Auresoma." He said respectfully.

"Blouud, have the elves who remained loyal to their masters found the need to declare for Arya's cause?"

The sealed Elf said nothing, but turned his head in answer.

"Konolum, have the Xoshan attempted to attack Galbatorix as of late?"

Konolum's eyes shot daggers at Elonubum.

"No. But like all three races, some of ours felt it necessary to flee to the aide of human squabbles. _Laneyo (_Young Girl) does it warm your heart to know that nearly one hundred thousand of ours lie dead? It is good that fighters like yourself have decided to leave us in our time of dire need."

Elonubum lowered her head.

"I did not . . . I did not know . . ."

"Wait."

Islanzadi stood from her throne. She wore a regal black dress that trailed behind her like a traveling pool of shimmering ebony water, while red puffy material flared at her collar. She strode past Eragon, past Arya, until she came to Brom. He looked away from her, but she turned to Arya, her eyes filled with utmost contempt and hatred.

"You have brought a Forsworn into our mist." Islanzadi said as soldiers abandoned their places around the party, and focused their attentions on Brom alone. Arya looked at Eragon with eyes full of shock, and Eragon himself turned in his saddle, and fixed his eyes on Brom. Brom looked at him, but then dropped his gaze.

"is it true?" Eragon whispered. If Brom was part of the Forsworn, it meant he was responsible for millions of deaths. It meant he was responsible for the death of Garrow, the destruction of Carvahall.

Brom returned his eyes to Eragon's, his face so young despite his age. A tear rolled down Brom's cheek as he nodded. Eragon remembered the name, the name that the Shades kept on calling Brom. A name that was filled with malice and contempt, a name built on evil itself.

_Caomhim. _

"So you did not know, human boy?" Islanzadi said casually as she was handed Brom's blade. She drew the sword out from its scabbard, and Eragon saw the dusky red metal edge, mixed with black metal. The eyes of the hilt glowed as the hilt guard-fashioned in a dragon's mouth, was opened in a snarl. Reptilian feet formed the pommel, which held onto a red ruby sharp enough to impale a man.

"Paljasta." Islanzadi muttered, waving a hand across the flat of the blade. Suddenly, writing appeared on the blade of Brom's weapon, evil in design alone.

"_Caomhim the avenger of Alyenne, and bane of the world." _Islanzadi said with a small smile as she threw the blade to the floor. It seemed to scream as it slid across the wood, spinning until it finally stopped, the point-end of it directed towards Eragon.

"Imprison them all. Save for Caomhim. I will deal with him directly." Islanzadi ordered, and Eragon could only sit in his saddle dumbly as he heard men take Brom away, while Arya screamed at her mother. Islanzadi simply walked back to her throne, and watched with dead eyes as they were taken away from her baneful gaze.


	69. ELDEST V

**ELDEST V**

"Caomhim."

Brom lifted his head as brown bangs waved over his eyes. His one arm was bound to a cold stone wall, while his two feet were shackled below. A small breeze waved from a exposed hole in the layered brick while light invaded his quiet world. His eyes narrowed as he saw the silhouette of Queen Islanzadi sway into view, after which a door slammed shut, locking the both of them into darkness. Suddenly, a dollop of blue flame hovered over thin fingers, swaying as tiny tongues of flame teased the cool air of Brom's cell.

"Queen Islanzadi" Brom muttered, his head rolling on his shoulders. Islanzadi brought the flame closer to her face as she walked up towards Brom. She did not look like a being that was over four hundred years old. Her hair was bright like the sun, while her eyes shimmered like green scales. She wore a gray cape over her body, and a large hood pulled back dangled around her shoulders. She gave Brom a cynical smile.

"It is good to see you still retain your manners." Islanzadi said as she lifted her flame closer to Brom's face. She turned his head left and then right, inspecting his features.

"It is you. Caomhim. Evander used to visit Doru Araeba. Vrael would always point out the star student, Galbatorix, and you and the raven-haired boy were always lurking in the man's large shadow. The only reason I have not killed you yet is because I need to know why you are no longer allied with Galbatorix. What did he do to you?" She snapped her fingers, and Brom fell to the hard floor. He gasped as air was forced from his lungs, and clawed at the stone, lifting himself up and leaning on the wall behind him.

"Galbatorix never betrayed me. I . . . I betrayed Morzan. He killed my dragon and then his own wife. He thought he murdered me and his two sons . . . but I live. _They _live."

Islanzadi's eyes widened.

"His two sons? You know who they are?"

Brom smiled.

"I know the Elves have their own pantheon of gods. What is the one dealing with _irony?" _

Islanzadi frowned.

"_Ummaye. _Though he is more of a trickster. What does that have to do with the sons of Morzan?"

"They are both allied with the Varden. And the youngest one . . . is a Rider." Brom laughed softly.

Islanzadi looked at Brom with disbelief in her eyes.

"Does the boy know?"

"He knows he was adopted by a northerner. Other than that, he has no idea who his father is." Brom answered.

"I see it now. The resemblance. The texture of their hair . . . the eyes . . . yes, this _E_ragon is Morzan's son. And you say there is another allied with the Varden?"

Brom nodded in answer. Islanzadi bit her lip, and turned away from Brom. She rotated again, and looked back at the man with pale green eyes.

"These are dark times. After . . . after my daughter killed Evander, after she destroyed more than half of our Empire . . . I had thought if we just hid, I would be able to keep my people safe. But the Sealed Elves have rebelled. We're holding . . .but I hear tales, Caomhim. Tales of dark wings in the night. Of ritual sacrifices to free _him." _

Brom shook his head.

"You don't mean . . . He is just a myth, a legend. That is what we learned in the libraries of Doru Araeba."

Islanzadi gave Brom a pitiful smile.

"Gohlobor exists. And he is striving for freedom. Blood locks him within his prison, and blood will free him. But only one aspect of his old self remains within the enchanted cell. There are three portions of Gohlobor that form the Eldeena's true form, and as long as these aspects do not meet, he will not attain his true power. Nonetheless, even one aspect of Gohlobor could do enough damage to threaten us all."

"Then you must ally with me. With us. The dwarves have already joined the Varden. I . . . I will not lie, Islanzadi. A part of me is still loyal to Galbatorix. The war he fought was just. But if what you say is true, about Gohlobor, then Galbatorix must be made to understand."

Islanzadi placed a small hand on the stone of Brom's cell wall.

"I often thought of what I would do if I were Galbatorix. He was attacked first. Vrael and the others betrayed him. You and the raven haired boy joined him to protect your friend. My daughter . . . I fear her, Caomhim. Not Arya . . . the _other. _The member of the Forsworn who killed her own father, my husband. I shall not say her name."

Brom didn't need her to. He knew it well enough.

_Alauinel Valbhorethlian. _

"Fear has kept me from acting. I always hoped she would turn away from her path . . . as it seems you have done. Despite the justification of your war, you are guilty, Brom. Blood pours from your hands. I cannot take that guilt away. But perhaps a deal can be struck . . ."

Brom raised his head at Islanzadi.

_What could she be thinking?  
_

"The one you call Morzan fights in the North. I know the _Suhureliel Omshurtag_ is now in Uru'baen . . . if you succeed in killing her, I will join the Varden's cause. She is evil, Caomhim. But even I could not slay her, a being that is part of me."

Brom shook his head. "That would take too long. We both know that there isn't enough time for me to do such a thing. The Sealed Elves will succeed if you do not act. You lack the manpower to fully throw them off. You need _allies." _

Islanzadi laughed bitterly, a surprisingly sweet sound.

"The Elves have never needed allies. But here I am being convinced by a human otherwise. Many of my own are already among the Varden . . . some returned when they received word of the rebellion . . . "

"The large dwarf in my party is Prince Orik. His station gives him some authority . . . if you ally with him, you ally with the Varden. What's more, each Dwarib prince has a contingent of royal guards. He could call those dwarves into battle to aid you against the Sealed Elves."

Hope glimmered in Islanzadi's eyes as she regarded Brom thoughtfully.

"Yes, yes you're right. With the Summer Fertility coming in a short few weeks, the Sealed Elf war offensive will halt. That will give us enough time to wait for the dwarf reinforcements. If Orik will agree to this." Islanzadi flashed Brom a grin.

"Prince Orik is no fool. He will see the sense in allying with your people, as you will see the sense in allowing Eragon to train with Oromis." Brom lifted his head to Islanzadi. The queen frowned, turning her own head away.

"Oromis Valbhorethlian . . . I have not seen him in some time. Ever since Evander died, Oromis has not been the same. He was Evander's younger brother. He looked up to my husband . . . his death rattled him. He keeps to himself."

"But will he answer a summon if you request it?"

"Without a doubt. He would do so based on the fact that Arya is Evander's daughter, and I was his wife. But to train Eragon . . . the son of Morzan and a human . . . I do not know."

Brom gave Islanzadi a weak smile.

"There is nothing to lose. Either he trains Eragon, or we find ourselves in quite the dire situation."

"You're almost as morbid as I am, Caomhim. I will have Eragon and his friends freed. I will contact Oromis . . . and you will be free as well, Forsworn. But only to hunt down _Suhureliel Omshurtag_ , and kill her."

Brom had fought with Alauinel before. She was crafty, strong, and smart. Her dragon was in a class of its own in terms of destruction. Before, Brom might have been able to defeat her. But his battle with the Shade not only lost him an arm, but also showed how weak he had gotten. Fighting normal beings had caused his skills to decline somewhat, and he knew for a fact he would fail if he fought Alauinel now.

"I will need time to train. To recuperate."

"Anything you need will be granted to you, Caomhim. Did . . . _ she_ ever express regret over the hurt she has caused? Has she ever professed sorrow?"

Brom knew that Alauinel did not feel sorrow. In fact, she reveled in the deaths that she caused, and took sadistic delight in killing her own father.

"She has not."

Islanzadi's gaze hardened.

"Then do not stay your sword, Caomhim."

Islanzadi opened the bar doors, and an armored elf materialized in front of her. Brom covered his eyes with his hand as light again burst into the room.

"Free the prisoners, but bring me the Dwarf. Give him his weapons, and be sure to tell him he is being _escorted_ to me, as a guest, not a prisoner."

The elf nodded.

"I will . . . I will talk with Arya later. But free them, and send them on the way to the mainland. Have Dilenu send word to Oromis. It is time he ends his solitude."

Brom rose to his feet, shakily at first, but strengthened after each step. He was of height with the tall Islanzadi, who nearly made him shrink with her intense eyes.

"It seems to all be coming together. What will the result be, I wonder?" Islanzadi said almost conversationally.

Brom's own gaze hardened.

"Victory," He began as he looked at Islanzadi, "Or death." As those words left his lips, he saw Alauinel's beautiful face covered with the blood of her father.

_Uru'baen. It has been some time since I last walked the halls of Galbatorix's castle. _ Brom saw Selena then, resplendent in personality and in figure.

_I have kept him safe thus far, Selena. Morzan, I do this for you as well. You hate me, I know that, but they are alive. As am I. Hopefully we will all meet again, as sons and friends, instead of enemies. _


	70. ELDEST VI

ELDEST VI

"WELCOME home, Murtagh."

The betrayed boy, the former lover of Nasuada, the prized warrior of the disposed Karem rose to his full height. Healing skin ripped in the movement, and he could feel blood well up from the exposed flesh, painting his gray tunic and causing it to stick to his back. Zidda came and helped him to his feet, and Murtagh leveled his green eyes at his true King, Galbatorix Hosteaux, Emperor of the New Broddring Kingdom.

"I see you have brought friends." Galbatorix said as he shifted the heavy gold crown that sat above a bush of sandy blonde hair. He smiled warmly at Murtagh, but the boy noticed that the smile thinned and vanished as he caught sight of Zidda, and The Twins further behind him.

"I was caught behind enemy lines. These three helped me escape." Murtagh said between grinding teeth. The pain was unbearable. The Twins had offered to heal him, and Zidda implored him to heed their advice, but Murtagh refused. He would carry these scars as a reminder of what Morzan's legacy granted him, and of what he would do to Nasuada once he found her. The thought of the black woman made his heart speed up in dangerous wroth, a anger so vile that Murtagh saw the change in Galbatorix's eyes.

"What happened to you?" The King asked, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"Karem was defeated, as you no doubt know. I was recruited by the Varden, and I escorted the Langfeld bastard's vizier, Nasuada, to the Dwarib Kingdom. There, an Elf mistook me for my father. I was whipped and tortured until I confessed for the deaths that Morzan delivered."

Galbatorix abruptly rose from his throne. He came to Murtagh, and Zidda backed away from the two men as they stood. Murtagh eyed Galbatorix's unchanging face, and gasped in surprise as Galbatorix hugged him close. He held Murtagh's head, gingerly avoiding his lower back, as to not cause Murtagh pain.

"They will pay for this. I've always seen you as my own son, just as I saw Morzan as my little brother. I promise you, they will pay."

The arduousness of his journey, combined with the betrayal of Nasuada and the others combined with the reassurance from Galbatorix caused Murtagh to weep. Sobs racked him, and he buried himself into Galbatorix's chest, crying so vehemently his tears fell like blood. Galbatorix stroked Murtagh's hair, cradling him like a toddler. Murtagh felt shamed then- If Nasuada hadn't turned on him, if the Elf hadn't found his true lineage, would he still fight for the Varden? How could he betray the man who had cared for him when Morzan was stricken by madness, a man who had saved him from the worst of Morzan's beatings? Murtagh may share his father's face, but Galbatorix was the one who had raised him as if he was his own son.

"I'm sorry," Murtagh rasped as tears squeezed through his shut eyes. "I'm so sorry."

Galbatorix delicately pushed Murtagh away at arm's length, his own green eyes staring into Murtagh's.

"I have never truly believed in this war. I find that conflict is only worth the blood if it is fought for just cause. But now, my poor boy returns to me _bloodied _and _ravaged. I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS! I AM GALBATORIX, SLAYER OF VRAEL, KING OF ALAGAESIA!" _

Galbatorix's voice reached high in the throne room, causing long-forgotten dust to shutter and fall to the ground from atop old statues and even older glass windows. As the particles fell, they caused the light of the throne room to become distorted, giving Galbatorix and ethereal aura. Tears still fell from Murtagh's eyes as he looked at Galbatorix.

This was strength. This was power. Orrin would stand no chance against Galbatorix.

Breathing hard, Galbatorix produced a napkin from a pocket inside his regal robes. He dapped at his forehead, lifting the shining crown slightly. Finally, his eyes zoned in on Murtagh.

"Do you want revenge?" Galbatorix asked.

"More than anything. I will kill them all."

Galbatorix looked past Murtagh, and saw his companions.

"What would you have me do with them?"

"They are true companions. Zidda has done me no wrong, and has been with me from Karem's tower, through the lands of near-Surda, and into the depths of the Dwarib Kingdoms. The Twins saw the injustice of Orrin's regime, and have abandoned him. You will find that they have precious information about the Varden's doings, and their future plans."

"Zidda . . . and you two, I will have you dressed and fed."

At once, a servant led the three of them away.

"My father once spoke to me of an inheritance. He said he had a gift for all three of his sons. I am the only one here today. I wish to claim what is mine by rights, the eldest son of Morzan." Murtagh requested.

"It is power. Power that you can use to destroy our enemies. I will grant you this, Murtagh. Your father fights in the North against some creature calling itself _Magebane, _but the true war has not yet begun. The Forsworn are here, with their dragons. But there is something more."

Galbatorix took Murtagh by the shoulder, and lead him away from the throne room. They walked amongst twisting corridors and dark hallways, passed massive glass windows that gave Murtagh a dazzling view of Uru'baen: Towers that picked at the clouds, giant clusters of stone buildings that housed hundreds of people, and magnificent spires that stood watch at the center of clean-cut city squares. They passed all of this, however. Walking in complete silence as they descended stairs that led deeper and deeper into the abyss of Galbatorix's castle. It got so dark that Galbatorix cast a spell, and soon an orb of azure fire led the way for them. Finally, they came to a small closed door. Galbatorix eased Murtagh forward.

"It will only open for those who carry Morzan's bloodline." He said softly. Frowning, Murtagh placed his hand on the old and cool stone. His palm tingled as the slab drew itself in, and Murtagh looked back at Galbatorix.

"Go on," He urged. Morzan walked into the room, Galbatorix behind him, his cape hissing as it slid across the floor. Murtagh saw what looked like a casket, a rectangular block of granite covered by a fitting piece of obsidian stone. Red jewels covered the obsidian, and cast the room in a blood-colored light. Murtagh touched the corner of the obsidian, and again felt his fingers twitch within themselves. After that sensation, the obsidian slowly scraped against the granite, revealing the contents of the sarcophagus.

"This is your inheritance. What was meant for you and your brothers is now yours alone." Galbatorix said behind Murtagh. He saw a curved sword with a ghost-metal blade, transparent yet shining, reflecting all the light around it. The hilt was of silver, fashioned in the likeness of a dragon's head, the hiltguard took the form of four curving horns, effecting surrounding the long hilt, which ended in rounded pommel that contained a blue gem.

"The sword of Vrael." Galbatorix informed, and Murtagh lifted the sword in his hands. It was heavy, and he could feel the lingering essence of Vrael fight against him. Murtagh knew that Riders put a portion of their spirit within their blades, and even though Vrael was long dead, he lived within his sword. Murtagh put the blade down within the bed of the sarcophagus. Next he found two gauntlets crafted of red dragon-scales. He picked them up, and again he could feel power within them. But this time it melded to his will, adjusted to the ebb and flow of Murtagh's own spirit, as opposed to fighting against the tide.

"The hands of _Evander. _With these, you should be able to wield Vrael's sword easier. They were both elves, and Evander's gauntlets will block the interference from Vrael's lingering spirit."

Murtagh nodded solemnly, and placed them down. Finally, he came to the last object. His fingers slid off the curved surface, and Murtagh frowned as he took two hands and grasped the thing solidly in his grip. He raised the object to his eyes, and saw in the dim-red cast of light, a veiny and round egg within his hands. Galbatorix was silent, and Murtagh could feel the anxiety and anticipation within him. Suddenly, Murtagh felt burning on his left palm. He cried out in pain as he attempted to free his hand, but it was stuck to the side of the egg. He fell to the ground as his back flared in agony, but suddenly, the pain vanished.

Galbatorix loomed over him, a shadowy silhouette with burning green eyes.

"One of the three eggs we salvaged from Doru Araeba." He said silently. Murtagh gasped as a tiny red dragon climbed up onto his chest, inspecting him with large childish eyes. It had a long tail that ended in a sharp dagger of bone, while tiny horns curled backwards from a square head. Two wings flapped at Murtagh tiny digits the corners of the webbed limbs as it stood on juvenile legs that reminded Murtagh of the predatory feet of eagles. He could feel the dragon's mind, feel its thoughts. It was hungry, but beyond that, it burned with love for Murtagh. It said his name, and Murtagh could hear it within his own mind.

"A dragon." Murtagh said breathlessly. Galbatorix helped Murtagh up as his new dragon clung to his tunic.

"I will have your gifts brought to you once you have a chamber of your own. You will also begin to train with Alauinel tomorrow." Galbatorix said, and Murtagh bowed his head. He knew of Alauinel, but he had never met her before.

"I hate to separate you from your dragon, but it must undergo the _turning." _

Murtagh followed Galbatorix out of the crypt.

"Turning?" He said, question ringing in his voice. Galbatorix did not respond, but simply traveled down an adjoining hallway. Murtagh furrowed his brows and walked in Galbatorix's wake, his dragon chirping happily. Galbatorix came upon a massive wall of runic stone, inscriptions glowing as the Emperor of Alagaesia raised his hands, causing the stone to rise.

"Your father never took me for a scholar. But I learned things from Shruikan. He is the dragonspawn of an ancient beast that is said to have reigned terror upon all humanity. He inherited all of his father's knowledge, and chose me has his Rider when he had already hatched eons before. He had been spared by Rayun'haurtubbi. Thank the Xoshan for that much."

Murtagh's eyes widened as he was greeted by a massive room of bright metal walls, while a beam of light rose from unseen depths, surrounded by a floating circle of shining stone.

"Galbatorix you have- _Morzan? _No, no, his son! And what's this . . ." A man appeared before them, middle-aged and wizened, bearing a strong bearded face while a giant sword hung from his back.

"This is Murtagh, Morzan's son. A newly made Rider." Galbatorix said with a grin.

"Good. Shruikan has just finished." The man announced as something shifted within the beam of light. A figure stepped onto the circular stone, a humanoid figure basked in silver. The color drew away from the figure's body, revealing pale and _human _skin. A face was seen, while red eyes peered down at them as long black hair fell down to the figure's waist. _Wings _sprouted from the man's back, and he alighted softly to where they all stood. Red eyes flashed at Galbatorix, and then settled on Murtagh's dragon.

"I see you have succeeded in hatching the egg." The dark man said. His voice was smooth, delicate like water passing over rounded pebbles in a slow-moving stream.

"I see. This is Morzan's son, Murtagh." Galbatorix nodded at Murtagh's direction. The man smiled, and revealed a mouth full of sharp teeth.

"I find Morzan's face within yours, young human. You will make a great warrior."

Murtagh stepped away from the man as wings were pulled into the being's back.

"What are you . . ." Murtagh asked as he warily eyed the creature.

"I was once a dragon. But now I am much more. I am Shruikan, an _Eldeena _partially restored."

Murtagh was breathless as Shruikan took his dragon, and placed the tiny reptile into the beam of light.

"We will show the Varden, this new Rider, and all of our enemies what true power is." Galbatorix roared as Shruikan took to the air, massive wings spreading wide as he flew about the spire of light.


	71. Eldest VII

(A/N) Don't worry, this is a chapter. But I have a few things. FIRSTLY I am so happy with how this story is going. I have a few notes, but everything is really coming together well. As I said, Eldest will PROBABLY be longer than Inheritance, as it is combining events found in CP's Eldest and Brisingr. That being said, you guys have about . . . four big battles to look forward to. I have a few questions for you, however. I introduced a lot of characters, and because of that, many of the characters are not fleshed out as well as others. A few characters that I want to focus on are:

Nasuadon

Neybark Wind

Rem

Elva

Elonubum

Alauinel (All of the Forsworn, basically)

Katrina

If you guys can think of any other characters that you would like to see more of just let me know and I'll be happy to give them some screen time so I can develop them. Eldest is the most ambitious project I have begun, and sometimes I fear I will fail in being able to capture the conflict going on in the world . . . speaking of the world . . . .

Everyone: WHERE THE FRAK IS THE MAP, DUDE?

Me: OKAY WELL as I said cartographer is hard to do! And while working on the map + new cover, I LOST TWO FAVORITES! So guys, you have to realize that doing supplementary stuff for this fanfic means I might not be able to post for a few days (and I like, have to deal with this waste of time thing called a life . . . I mean really come on) So there are going to be times where I am WICKED busy so unfollowing or removing this story from your favorites doesn't really help anything. Actually, if I don't post for lets say three days and see that 3+ unfollowed or whatever, that makes me NOT want to update. I mean, ONLY ONE person unfollowed my twilight rewrite and I haven't updated that in months. Four days with this fanfic? Three people (Who seem to have re-followed after two chapter updates . . . ) I hate to sound like a jerk but yeah that's kinda messed up. Also, PLEASE REVIEW! Combining yesterday's views with the number of views on Wednesday, I got over 1,000 views. How many reviews? Wait for it . . .

TWO. I mean, I am super thankful of the support but I NEED FEEDBACK! I put a lot of work into these chapters and I need to see how I'm doing. Honestly, I know you guys want supplementary stuff like the map, but I really feel like it isn't worth it sometimes due to the fact that out of 1,069 people, only TWO people took time to review. This isn't me being rude or selfish or mean, this is me BEGGING you to review. SO PLEASE. Even if you have NOTHING to say, or if you have NOTHING good to say, PLEASE.

REVIEWW! (So I'm ending this now seeing as I wasted 500 words on this rant . . .)

**ELDEST VII**

Killian kicked a headless body from the deck of his ship. All in all, Rem had pointed out seven men that had abused him, and now all seven were dead. Rem himself watched, stone faced, as Killian turned. His wounds still ached, but the boy was not only touched by magic, he could control it perfectly. Even among Riders, Killian had never felt the power he sensed when around Rem. Before, he had barely noticed it, but that was because magic _came _from Rem naturally. All beings touched by magic, even Elves, weaved energy around them and combined that force with portions of their own spirit, the strength of which was usually used to determine how powerful one was in the arcane arts. But this boy . . .

Magic _and_ spirit combined within him, an essence created from his own person. The combination led to an unfathomable power, a torrent of pure focused energy that was greater than Killian could ever muster. All of this within a boy that had not seen more than sixteen summers.

The sun shone past a punctured cloud, as the ships of Killian's fleet filled the last reaches of the South Sea. Ahead of them, he spotted a large and winding landmass, mountains teasing as they were cast in a dark green blur above the mist of churning ocean. Killian could smell the salt rising off of the waters, and he could feel the air as it slipped past his clothing and his mask. He fingered his staff as his crew stood at attention, while Rem sat on the deck, leaning on the wall of Killian's captain quarters.

"If anyone of you touch the boy, you will die as they did. They will make a good meal for the sharks that have been following the destruction we have wrought on our way here." Killian bellowed. He was answered by a scattered response of "yes, captain" and "Aye, sir". Some even were brave enough to contort their face in a deep scowl, but in the end, Killian knew he ruled them all. They feared him, as they should. Some even feared Rem now, as he had been able to return Killian to health. Now, even the foolish Dwarib navigator began to show Killian respect as they drew closer to the New World.

And now they were at the doorstep of the land.

"We have traveled long, and we have crossed seas that would have broken lesser men. We have defeated countless Nyste merchant ships, and soon we will strike them in the heart. The New World is ours, and after we have claimed it, we will return to the mainland, and bring havoc to the Dwarib Kingdom."

Cheers took the deck then as Barnacle directed the ship forward, cutting the sea in two. The sails grew larger as they captured the power of the wind, the land ahead growing larger and larger. Killian could feel the ancient power within the landmass, a disturbed entity that had risen due to the industry of the Dwarib merchants. Anticipation grew within Killian regardless. What could stop him?

"Captain, something is rising from the New World." A man called from atop the masts.

"Everyone, back to your positions. Someone get me a looking glass." Killian ordered as men moved about around him. Rem rose suddenly, his yellow eyes turning red.

"Rem, what's going on?!" Killian screamed, rushing to the boy and grabbing him by his shoulders. Rem looked at him blankly while his mouth moved, whispering words that Killian recognized as spells but did not understand their context. He threw the boy down on the deck as one of his crew scrambled to give him an eyeglass. But at this time, Killian had no use for it. Looming above them in the air was a massive winged beast, a dragon as black as night with eyes that glowed dully with a blinding brightness. However, the creature's lower body was all half-decayed muscle sticking to shining bone as a skeletal tail whipped at the surface of the ocean. Killian stood breathless as the dragon hung in the air, half-decayed wings spread far, eclipsing the sun. For some time there was no sound, silence and fear taking up the space within the empty air. But then some kind of projectile struck at the dragon's winged shoulder. There was an explosion of noise as the dragon roared in protest, turning in the air and focusing on whatever had attacked it from the land.

"No!" Rem screamed as he ran to the railing of the boat.

"We must land, we must land _now!" _he called. Killian lowered his head, the mask he wore heavy on his face. The beast reminded him of his own dragon, still a mere hatch-ling tucked away safely in his own quarters far away, hidden within the lands of Surda . . .

"What is the dragon to you?" Killian questioned.

"It _is_ me, part of me. I did not know why I came with you on this ship, but now I understand. I . . . . I do not know for sure, but this being belongs to me. I can feel it." Rem looked up at Killian, his eyes still red behind the shaggy veil of similarly colored hair.

Killian glanced up at the land. The Dragon was fighting something, as horns were called and more explosions were heard, while lights flashed around the Dragon's body. They were close enough to begin a landing.

"Prepare the rowboats. Our destiny begins now." Killian ordered.

(Line Break)

Orrin marched with his men. They left the lands of House Yorbar wounded and weakened, with many of the Elves leaving to protect their homeland from the Sealed rebels. Dwarf soldiers hard won were given leave to remain and rebuild their homes, but thankfully a scant few had beckoned that call. Many of them were young, and wished to see the world above their own. Orrin would show them the wonders of Alagaesia . . . but they would also experience the splatter of blood on their faces and the sound of their allies dying while their entrails curled among the feet of men still fighting. Once they reached the walls of Aroughs, the war would begin. It was furthest from the Empire, and Orrin mused that it would be easy to conquer. They needed a victory, especially after the loss of Murtagh and the betrayal of The Twins.

"Tell me of this settlement, Lord Ghuion." Orrin said to the tanned man who rode beside him. Ghuion was a high-Surdan, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He wore a turban over his head, while his lower mouth and chin were covered by white cloth. He rode a fast Surdan horse, and a long spear was belted to his back.

"Many men in your army will be fighting cousins and brothers. Aroughs, as you know, has remained loyal to Galbatorix." Ghuion inhaled deeply as the sound of marching men came from behind. Trebuchets dragged across muddy ground, the land turning from sand and sparse grassland to an arid yet slightly forested locale.

"The city stands upon a swamp, while canals draw water from the West Sea. The water is used to power mills and other instruments, and waste is carried away by a different canal leading away from Aroughs. It is two tiers high, about twelve feet above the ground. Around the canals, walls guard the settlement half submerged in the swampy water."

Orrin chewed his lip. Taking the area would prove to be much harder than first thought. The trebuchets might not do much damage if the water absorbs most of the damage wrought by thrown boulders.

"What would be your plan of attack?" Orrin asked as his horse pulled muck-filled hooves from the ground, trudging forward while rain began to dampen their clothing.

"Many High-Surdans know the canals well. Send a small force within the settlement once night falls, and have them open the gates from within. The water is low enough that it can be traversed on foot. After the gates are opened, we will be free to enter the city."

"We are too close to tally, then. We must send men at once. We shall camp here. Tell the others, Lord Ghuion."

Defrey Ghuion nodded, turning around with a flourish of his cape to announce Orrin's words to his lagging army.

_Where are you now, Father? What has come of your designs?_

(Line Break)

Night fell upon the land. Defrey Ghuion opened his mouth, and swallowed the salt-tinged air. Six other High-Surdans waded behind him, spears held above their heads as they bounced from half-sunken trees towards the small canal opening that lead into the city of Aroughs. Their toes scraped against the floor of the forest, which had long since been covered by deep waters. Insects buzzed around their faces as amphibious creatures croaked, filling the night with melodic whines that joined the dark time symphony. Defrey looked behind himself and saw his men. Blonde and blue eyed, the young faces looked back at him, straight noses barely above water. Defrey nodded forward, and then turned himself. He kicked into the water, a splash quietly splattering droplets back into their liquid home as he dived under. His eyes were used to the touch of water, and he could see easily as he sawed through the thin wood gates of the Canal. After having to rise to the surface for air three times, he had cut a square hole, and urged the others through.

They swam easily enough, against the smooth current of the canal. Defrey poked his head above water, looking at his surroundings. Two pathways flanked the canal, and above the paths, guards patrolled raised wooden sidewalks, supported by stakes of oak that defied the touch of water. Defrey climbed underneath the sidewalk, listening for the sound of footsteps above as his men moved into position.

_Now!_

He swung over to the top of the sidewalk, startling the guard who was in mid-step. Without wasting a breath, Defrey jumped forward, locking the guard in his arms, and then quickly snapping the man's neck. He tossed the body into the canal, and frowned as he heard the sound of the second body follow suit.

"Time for the gates." Defrey whispered as his soldiers crouched around him. The sidewalks curled around buildings of stone and wood, but the bleached walls of Aroughs were always nearby. While they were not of brick, the surface was rough enough that Defrey did not think they would have trouble in finding handholds. Defrey began his ascent, a shadow against the white surface. The night was cool, and the air was still. Silence was palpable as even their breathing was hushed, scaling the wall, approaching the raised portcullis lever that would open the gates for Orrin's army. They were waiting in large riverboats, ready to attack once Defrey gave the signal.

Defrey reached the battlements of the wall, swinging over them with tired limbs. After waiting a moment to catch his breath, Defrey raced across the hard stone battlements, the moon akin to a giant's eye, watching his every movement. Their footsteps were a light patter, barely audible as they came to the chambers that controlled the gates. Defrey stopped at the closed door, and then scaled it, climbing atop the roof. His men jumped over the battlements, gripping onto sloping gargoyles on the other side of the wall.

Defrey leaned over the roof of the room, and racked on the door.

"Yeah, yeah, hold on." A voice called from inside. The door unlocked and swung open. After a moment of confused silence, Defrey pounced. He reached his arms downwards and pulled the man who answered the door up, and then over the side of the wall. He screamed as he splashed into the water below, while Defrey snaked into the room as his men followed. He came across the lever that controlled the gate, and pulled it backwards, hearing the sound of rising chains as gears ground against each other. As shouts sounded around him, Defrey reached into his sodden pockets and produced a water-resistant bag crafted of seal-skin. He pulled six fire-eyes from the bag, and threw them into the air. In seconds, they lit the night sky in a wide array of colors, and Defrey smiled as the light shone on his face.

The battle for Aroughs had begun.


	72. ELDEST VIII

ELDEST VIII

When Orrin spoke to hardened soldiers and decorated veterans, they told him of the glory found in battle. They told of the excitement, the skill, and the intensity. They said battle was the greatest way for a man to prove himself. But what they did not tell Orrin of was the blood.

The canals of Aroughs were red snakes that coiled around burning homes while bodies were flung into the water below. Above them, trebuchet-propelled stones crashed into the tall castle that belonged to the Lord of Aroughs, his the number of his flags waning as they were torn billowing from metal spikes. Screams filled the air, men fighting and dying at equal intervals, with the smell of excrement and piss and all of the panoply of bloodshed sticking to Orrin's regal dressings like a second skin. He had fought bravely against the Urgals in Farthen Dur- but this was different.

Here, he fought humans.

A man came rushing at him, spear in hand as he stepped over fallen bodies. Orrin raised his shield, absorbing the jabbing blow and turning the spear aside. He lifted his blade and struck it across the neck of his attacker, who let out a childish cry as his upper face was suddenly soaked in his own blood. Orrin faltered as he watched the boy writhe away from Orrin's blade, holding his partially severed neck until he died in a series of convulsions.

This was war.

"Sir, the districts are all under our control. All that is left is the fort of Lord Yaneesh."

Orrin turned, weary eyed, to find Lord Ghuion standing beside him. The High-Surdan had blood up to his elbows, while a curved blade waited in his red hands. Blonde hair fell over eyes that were dulled to the sight of death. Orrin's pupils lingered on the body of the boy he had just killed, before his heart hardened.

"Keep up the assault. Lord Yaneesh chooses to hold himself up in his fort, instead of dying amongst his people." Orrin ordered, and Lord Ghuion nodded, jogging off to follow Orrin's command. Orrin himself walked ahead on the wooden paths that presided over swampy water drenched in bodies and blood. Clamor rang in the air, an unholy bedlam of death a constant in Orrin's ears. His royal guard tailed behind him, trained men dressed in High Surdan fashion, wearing iron helms wrapped in golden turbans, while their bodies were covered with scaled iron hauberks and leggings. They held pronged spears, ready to defend Orrin at any threat.

"Let's go." Orrin whispered as he kicked his feet to the wood below him. He ran ahead, following the angular trail of the boardwalks. On both sides the stilted homes of the Aroughsmen were engulfed in flame, some of them collapsing in the murky swamp that they had lived above for countless generations. Orrin held his sword high as they came across a group of Imperial soldiers. They stood on a square block of boarded wood, of which in the center a large weeping swamptree was allowed to grow, pink flowers sprouting from sagging branches. The Imperials shouted as they charged into Orrin's group, and his guards returned the yawp. The King of Men jabbed his sword forward, catching a man by the neck. The man gulped as red blood drained through his closed mouth while he fell. Orrin jumped backwards as he pulled his sword away, royal guards taking up the space he left open. The sound of war was real to his ears now as screams filled them. Screams of humans. Humans who had dreams, loves, desires. A sickening feeling caught his stomach while he hacked away at a man who had tried to impale him with a long spear. Orrin killed the man with a quick cut along the Imperial's bowels, and then sent him into the swamp below, intestines trailing after him, landing in the muck with a thick _slop. _

With that, the Imperials were defeated. All around, fighting seemed to cease, and silence threatened to overtake the once-peaceful city. Suddenly, a large horn bellowed as a white flag was lifted above the spires found within Lord Yaneesh's court. As if on call, Lord Ghuion came, jumping roof to roof until finally he landed on the square that Orrin and his men stood on.

"What does it mean?" Orrin inquired as Ghuion caught his breath.

"They wish to speak with you. It would be ill done for you to kill any Aroughsmen while that flag still waves." Ghuion counseled.

Orrin looked at the bodies that piled in the stagnated waters below them.

"I do not believe there are many Aroughsmen left."

"I concur, My Grace. If you would give me the pleasure, please allow me to escort you to Lord Yaneesh." Ghuion asked with a bow. Orrin waved his hand, giving him his permission. Ghuion instantly walked ahead of them, while Orrin and his guards followed. They marched through defeated streets covered in bodies, across long stretches of raised wooden pathways that were flanked by flames. This was the work of Orrin's army.

Finally, the came to a thick stone plateau, of which a portcullis was already drawn down, giving them access to the modest castle ahead of them. Ghuion led them across, as Orrin spied tired archers on battlements that had not been destroyed by Orrin's trebuchets.

They passed over the shadow of the gate, and were now inside Yaneesh's main courtyard.

"I hear you are called Orrin." A neutral voice said as it stepped from shadow. Orrin saw a weathered middle-aged man with sun-browned skin, pale blue eyes, and dark blonde hair. A wispy yellow beard hugged his square chin, while a dark brown cloak hugged slim shoulders. Beside him, a beautiful but withdrawn woman stood, similarly colored, wearing a purple gown. At her side, a young man of perhaps fifteen years stood, with light brown locks and bright blue eyes.

"Your armies have taken us by surprise. We had been warned by Galbatorix, but we did not heed them. We believed our walls would keep us safe. But it seems our brethren, with whom we have shared meat and mead, decided to betray us." Lord Yaneesh eyed Ghuion.

"What did you want to speak of, Lord?" Orrin questioned. Yaneesh turned his head, looking at his wife and his son.

"A trial by battle. If I win, you will be executed by my own hand, and your armies will withdraw from Aroughs. If you win, I will die, and my son shall become the new Lord of Aroughs under your banner."

"Orrin, let me fight this man for you." Ghuion whispered. Orrin simply shook his head, and stepped forward, sword ready, shield raised.

"I accept your challenge. And your terms."

Yaneesh flew at Orrin with trained speed as his cloak fell from his shoulders. Two curved swords danced in his deft hands, catching Orrin completely off-guard. Orrin blocked one blade with his shield, only to twist in order to defend his leg from a glancing slice. Yaneesh jumped backwards, flourished his blades, and attacked again. Orrin hid behind his shield as Yaneesh battered down Orrin's defense. Orrin ducked as a blade whizzed over his head, and struck at Yaneesh's heel with the point of his sword. Yaneesh jumped over Orrin, cutting both of his shoulders in the process, landing behind him without a second thought.

Orrin gasped in pain as he dropped his shield, turning at the last moment to see two blades coming for his neck. He jerked his head backwards, the lone point of Yaneesh's blade trailing a superficial cut across Orrin's clavicle. Orrin hissed as he felt blood rise from his wounds, and then heard them drip onto the ground below. He waved his sword before his face as Yaneesh circled, blue eyes focused on the vision of Orrin's demise.

_He's better than me. _Orrin thought with grim humor. Yaneesh was possibly the best swordsman Orrin had ever faced . . . _No. _

There was another.

Murtagh.

_Murtagh conserved his energy. He defended and then attacked when it seemed unlikely. He ignored feints and struck only when he knew his sword would cut true. _

Orrin saw Murtagh on his own body as Yaneesh attacked again. Orrin now fought defensively, blocking the blows of Yaneesh's dual blades. Orrin then struck and swiveled a blade out from Yaneesh's loose grip, while the man gasped in surprise. Hurried, Yaneesh rushed at Orrin as his back was turned . . . .

Orrin saw Murtagh then, saw him perform that strange Beyonder strike where one spins on the ground, flourishing their blade like a savage . . .

Orrin spun on his heels as Yaneesh's blade harmlessly went past him. He raised his sword arm as he turned into Yaneesh's chest. Inches away from the man, he plunged his blade into Yaneesh's shoulder, stepping away and falling to the ground. Yaneesh dropped his remaining sword as he stumbled about the main courtyard, until finally he fell over, dying a warriors death. As Orrin rose to his feet, Yaneesh's wife let out a blood curdling scream as the new lord of Aroughs regarded Orrin with blank eyes.

"What is your name?" Orrin called out across the yard.

"Sanjaat." The boy answered.

Orrin bowed his head as he felt the effects of blood loss.

"Welcome to the Varden." He gasped as pain flared across his body, while the flags of Galbatorix were lowered from atop the ruined castle.

Aroughs was now a part of Orrin's usurping Kingdom, a pure continuation of the Langfeld line, and the true successor to the name of Broddring.


	73. Question to readers

This isn't a chapter, so just bear with me. It HAS come to my attention that at least one of you want me to make a new post for Eldest. I had originally planned to continue Eldest in this thread, and then end my rewrite cycle with Brisingr (in a new thread). Soooo . . . it is up to you guys at this point.

Tell me why I should make a new thread for Eldest. Honestly, I don't think I need to. I mean, the number of chapters will obviously grow larger, but most of you have already read the first part of the rewrite trilogy, and ALSO I have FOUND a WEBSITE that I can use to post stuff! I will separate the rewrite books on there, as well as post my original story for free. Made some headway with the map, which I will be able to post on the website as well. The elven portions of the map are done, all I need to do now is do the human/dwarf lands. It isn't super pretty, but it gets the job done. Sooo, let me know what you guys think.


	74. Eldest Chapter Nine

-ELDEST CHAPTER NINE-

Eragon was greeted by pale stone buildings with diamond pillars. He saw clean streets with cobbled roads, each perfectly placed rock entrusted with a glowing gem. Statues of various elves stood over the city, while the main palace sat atop a high green hill. Above it, a gargantuan likeness of an elf that bore the same square face as Arya loomed, holding a spear that was raised over the elf's head. Eragon could feel the awe ebbing from Saphira, who walked beside him. She had grown nearly as tall as he, and her bright eyes glowed as she turned to face him.

_So this is Gillendel of Ellesmera. _She said, a tone of approval in her voice.

_Yes. Apparently this is where Arya was raised. Gillendel is a sight to behold, to say the least. _Eragon responded. Before him, Arya lead the way. She was dressed in white trappings: A bleached tunic hugged her torso while her arms were held behind her back. Long and sculpted legs found themselves in milky silk trousers, and her sword hung brilliantly from her belt. Around them, Laen Elves watched politely, none of them even coming up to marvel at Saphira. Eragon had learned that Elves were a people of respect almost to a fault, and would not approach you unless they had good reason to.

That, or they were blinded by their own arrogance. Eragon learned from his time with Arya that there were very few beings as arrogant and borderline racist as Elves, and under their beautiful and polite exterior hid an xenophobic zealot.

And now Eragon was in the heart of their land. Prince Orik towered behind him as Cambion lurked to Eragon's left. His head was down, but Eragon could see the Shade watching him from the side of his eyes. The spirit within Eragon had stilled for most of their journey, but upon entering the Elf Lands, Eragon began to feel its presence. He curled his hands into fists, passing through neat courtyards, bubbling fountains, and modest bakeries. The Laen Elves dressed themselves in billowing robes, and the males often left one breast exposed, while draping a red scarf over their shoulder. The women wore light dresses, and many of them bore exotic-looking earrings. For the most part, they had bright blond locks, but there were many raven-haired Elves, and some even with red coloring. They all looked to be in their early to middle twenties, but Eragon knew that the Elfkind he walked among now could easily be over one hundred years old.

"I've never been to Gillendel. Or any of the Ellesmera districts." Elonubum said wistfully.

"It is a grand place." Orik muttered in response, and Eragon could picture the Dwarib prince's massive head bobbing in approval.

"Gillendel was built after Aryan Valbhorethlian defeated the Talin Clan and the half-elf Langfeld Belon many years ago. That is his likeness behind the palace." Cambion said. Eragon allowed his eyes to drift to the statue again, finding Arya's features in that of her ancestor.

"Aryan was our first Emperor. My great grandfather practically built Ellesmera, and was able to subjugate the Xoshan Elves and the Sealed Elves. He set up the Triumvirate, so every race was represented equally before him on his Thorn Throne."

Elonubum scoffed at that, but Arya paid the Xoshan no mind. As they walked, Elves bowed gracefully to Arya, to which she responded in kind. They greeted her in strange tongues, a quick and soft language that reminded Eragon of the sound coming from a flute. White birds sat upon rooftops, chirping as an Elf man played a harp before a small stone dwelling.

"Music is a central part of Laen Elf life." Arya informed.

"It is almost a magic within itself." Prince Orik said behind Eragon. Arya turned then, beaming at the Dwarib Prince.

"Perhaps I will request a harp be given to you, in thanks for brining men to assist us in fighting the Sealed."

"With these thick six fingers, I do not know how successful I would be in playing such a delicate instrument. Perhaps the sound is enough for me for now." Orik responded. Arya nodded, turning back around as they began their climb up the large hill that lead to the palace. As they walked, Cambion leaned into Eragon's shoulder.

"Be wary." He said silently. Eragon and Saphira both turned to regard the Shade.

"What do you sense?" Eragon asked, placing a hand to his chest.

"The Spirit within you seems to dislike Elves. It was fine before, but this many . . . I may be able to control it, but if it lashes out, I fear that I will only be able to calm it after it has caused you pain." Eragon nodded mournfully, lifting his still-healing arm as he was reminded of the battle that had gifted him this wraith.

They walked up a series of stairs. After that, they came to a large golden gate, of which was opened by two armored guards. Eragon was greeted by a garden with dozens of statues holding bouquets of red flowers. The statues were of elf-women frozen in various states of dance as they followed the curved pathway towards the entrance to the palace. The roof of the manse was inscribed with archaic-looking Elves wearing studded armor, singing some sort of treaty. Above all that, the grim expression of Aryan stood, watching over the land he had created, ever vigilant, even in death.

They entered the palace, Saphira's claws clicking against the smooth marble flooring. Eragon saw Sealed Elf servants scurry about, and was reminded that not all of them had joined in the rebellion. Still, he pitied them somewhat- He had come to the understanding that Sealed Elves were little more than slaves. They followed Arya underneath a curved archway which lead to another long hall, with two more statues of Aryan, nearly twelve feet tall, standing at either side of a massive oaken door. Flags of House Valbhorethlian were hung about the walls of the hall, fearsome and bright in appearance, the red raven on a black field.

"My mother is waiting inside. As is _Oromis. _My uncle." Arya whispered as they came to the doors.

"Eragon, remain silent. Do not speak unless you are addressed. Say nothing but what is required. Oromis is quick to judge, and once he has made an opinion on someone, little will change his mind."

"Where is his dragon?" Saphira asked, using her actual voice. Arya, surprised by Saphira's outburst, widened her eyes.

"I do not believe he is here. If Oromis agrees to train Eragon, you will meet him soon enough."

Eragon sensed a mixture of emotion from Saphira, and the sensation made him uncomfortable. None the less, as Arya opened the doors to the throne room, he followed, his party behind him.

Eragon's boots clacked on the ground as he walked in Arya's wake, her slippers making no sound. The throne room was adorned with Valbhorethlian sigils, while two guards stood at the feet of a massive throne. Thorns twisted and curved from the black wood of the throne, standing nearly twelve feet tall. Empty chairs flanked the throne, while a young-elf that looked like the statue of Aryan stood facing them. He had long black hair stripped with gold tint, and wore a silver chest plate over his torso, rope crossing his shoulders, making an x at the center of his body. Layered greaves hugged his legs, and a red cape was clasped to one of his shoulders, and it draped over half of his body. Blue eyes beamed from a sharp-featured face that looked like a masculine version of Arya's, while a sword with a jeweled pommel hung at the elf's belt.

Oromis Valbhorethlian.

"Uncle," Arya bowed. She then did the same for her mother, who sat high atop the thorn seat. Islanzadi peered down at them like a goddess watching the lives of mortals, her hair pinned back into a bun. She wore an overflowing dress the color of deep green, and her fingers thrummed the thick armrests of her chair.

"How do you like Gillendel, human?" Islanzadi asked.

Eragon reddened.

"It is a fine city, High Queen Islanzadi."

Islanzadi gave an amused smirk.

"I see Arya has taught this human some manners." She chuckled to herself.

"But you are not a human, are you? Not anymore. A Rider, now. No doubt you have realized the being standing underneath me is Oromis."

Oromis stepped forward, his armor clinking.

"What is your name, dragon?" He called out. His voice was eerily soft, almost womanlike, but strength ebbed from the crevasses of his words. He was power incarnate. Eragon could see why Oromis had survived the Rider's Rebellion.

"Saphira." Eragon's dragon answered. Oromis turned his head to Eragon.

"And you are the boy called Eragon Drakefyre.. A fearsome name." He said coolly.

"Eragon has defeated a Shade, Oromis. And held his own against a Raz'ac wraith. I believe he is living up to his title." Arya mentioned quickly.

"And the others? An Xoshan elf, a kind-hearted Shade, and a Dwarib prince." Oromis called out. Silence took the room again.

"Sealed Elves burn Xoshan forests. Galbatorix stirs in Uru'baen. Morzan marches North. And Islanzadi has allowed Caomhim to stay at the border, in order to train to kill her own firstborn daughter." Oromis said carefully.

"Eragon Drakefyre, you wish to learn from me? To gain power?" Oromis asked. Eragon nodded his head a little too quickly.

"Yes . . . my . . . lord." He stumbled. Oromis gave him a quick disdainful smile.

"I sense the being within you. I sense your confusion. If it were up to me, I would have you killed. But it seems that is not a viable option. I saw Galbatorix grow in Doru Araeba, I watched his accomplices, Morzan and Caomhim. I will not train another of their human ilk in the ways of the Riders, so that you may in turn betray me."

Eragon's heart fell into his stomach as he stood, speechless. The fact that Oromis said that with such calm somehow made the statement harder to bear.

"You must train him! No one, not even you, can fight all of the Forsworn. We need him." Arya stressed. Oromis looked at Arya with cold eyes.

"You do not know what he is? Who he is? His line has caused enough bloodshed already. The _Ceryani_ seers were a race of near-men prone to violence and horrific visions. That is what his _Father_ and _his mother _was. I sense the Ceryani blood is strong in this boy."

"The Talin clan wiped out the Ceryani eons ago." Arya challenged.

"And they fled west into human lands. This boy is most likely one of the last vestiges of their blood, but that does not change what he is. "

"Oromis, you must think about the future," Islanzadi said above them all.

Oromis Valbhorethlian gave her a grim smile.

"There is no future. Regardless of what I do, there will never be anything but sadness and death."

Oromis walked away from the Throne, brushing past Eragon and his friends.

"We shall train him ourselves, then." Islanzadi called out. Oromis turned, his blue eyes burning.

"Then he will die."

Oromis left them, leaving a screaming Arya in his wake.

_He knows my father. _Eragon thought to himself as he looked at his hands.

_My father was a Ceryani? . . . what am I? who am I? _

(A/N) SOOOOOO THE WEBSITE IS DONE, LINK IN MY PAGE. I will be posting the map on the facebook page I made, which can be found on the website. ALSOO you will find my Primary Bloodline book in full for free on the "books" tab of the website. SO go and check it out! Also, I will finish Eldest on this thread so people don't have to re-find another thread and re-follow etc etc. So if you don't like that, I'm sorry and I hope that the story itself will make up for it.


	75. Eldest Chapter Ten

(A/N) Okay, a few things. FIRSTLY map is like 75% done. I will be posting it on the Tower of Magi page on facebook either tonight or tomorrow. SECONDLY, if any of you wanted to read my book Primary Bloodline for free, it is on my website which is found in my profile info. FOR ANY OF YOU who have downloaded and and were turned off by the ghetto format, have no fear! It is now available in PDF format so you can download it again. And in light of the question if I'm going to make a new thread or not . . . I've decided on a compromise. I will be doing four books instead of three. So this Eldest won't be nearly as long. Unfortunately, that means I'll have to play around with my notes and I'm pretty sure two of the major battles I was building up to in Eldest will have to wait until Brisingr :/. I'm sorry guys, but I want to please everyone. Regardless, enjoy this fresh new chapter.

-ELDEST CHAPTER TEN-

Killian stood on the coast of the New World. Palm trees wavered gently, pushed by the calming breeze that flew over the sea. Scattered about the sandy beach were bits of wood, freshly killed bodies, and various strange instruments that Killian had no idea what they were. Further down, at the edge of the tropical jungle that hugged the land, a massive dragon skeleton sat. Bony wings curled around the boy called Rem, while a sloping skull slowly splintered and fell; heavy shards sending quiet plumes of smoke into the air as they touched the sandy ground.

"What happened to him?" Barnacle shook visibly, a pitiful dagger in his hand. Killian looked at the dwarf contemptuously, and then took tentative steps towards the steaming bones. They had come in contact with the dwarves that lived here, who attacked them with floating machines that spat giant balls of flame, vaporizing flesh and turning portions of the large beach into long stretches of glass. The smell of skin was still thick in the air, Killian having to do all that he could so he did not retch from inside his mask. The man climbed over round dunes and passed a crunchy field of half burned sand, until he came to the former dragon's corpse. Killian did not know if the beast had ever truly even been alive, but all of its meaty parts had been absorbed into the young boy when he ran onto the shore the minutes their rowboats touched the edge of land. Now, however, within the serrated white tomb, Killian could not see anything.

"Rem?" He called, peering forward on the soles of his feet, raising his chained sickle. A black hand rose from the darkness, curling around a thick rib, and pulling itself forward. Killian saw a man, not a boy, with a head that bore overflowing red hair. Eyes, one yellow, one red, regarded Killian with dim recognition.

"Captain." Rem said softly as he pulled himself free of the bone prison. The Beyonder landed onto the beach on two long legs, stretching out the trousers that the boy Rem had worn. His hair reached the sides of his waist, while a pale white arm hung from a black shoulder.

"What happened to you?" Killian asked, raising his weapon.

"I don't know. The body . . . it joined with mine. I have memories, now. Memories I don't recall living. I can't make sense of any of them." Rem answered, his voice eerily deep. Killian regarded the dragon bones once more. Slowly crumbling, they reminded him of his own beast. But it seems that Killian had found something much more powerful than a juvenile dragon. He would use Rem, and then he would kill the creature, whatever it was, before it became more dangerous than it already was.

(Line Break)

"You must calm yourself." Cambion urged as Eragon paced in their quarters. The queen had at least given them a large room, big enough for Cambion, Orik, and Elonubum. Saphira was allowed to roam throughout the entire garden of the palace, a vast area that was more akin to a forest than a place for flowers.

"How can I be calm?" Eragon turned, giving Cambion a bitter half-smile.

"Oromis was my only hope. _Our _only hope." Eragon finished, holding his hands before his face.

"Do your spirits know what _Ceryani_ are?"

Cambion lowered his head.

"We do." He said solemnly. Prince Orik grunted from where he was seated, reclining on one of the large beds that lined their quarters. To the far left, a large balcony was left to them, and the morning sun sprinkled light into their dim room.

"Tell me. Please." Eragon begged. Cambion nodded, drawing in a heavy breath.

"Ceryani were a race of near-men, as Oromis said. They lived in the Far East, though no one knows where they came from. They possessed great skill in magic, although many were no different from regular humans. Those that had magical ability were called _Mergoi. _These few were so powerful than a handful of them could have easily destroyed The Riders single-handedly. But the Mergoi were a minority among their native Ceryani. A Mergoi would often lead a tribe of Ceryani, and they often raided Elven lands. Again, as Oromis said, the Mergoi were hunted to near extinction, while the Ceryani were assimilated when they fled west. However . . . "

"There are living Ceryani with . . . _Mergoi_ blood. Like me. And my Father."

"Yes." Cambion answered silently.

"And do you know who his father is?" Prince Orik blurted. Eragon turned his gaze to Cambion, who looked at him with those haunting eyes of his.

"No." He said with finality. Just then, the door to their chambers opened. They all turned to find Arya striding into meet them. A scowl was written over her face, and she wore a black night gown that went from her neck all the way to the bend of her knees. She wore no slippers, and her naked feet slapped against the marble floor of Eragon's chamber.

"My uncle is a fool." She said angrily.

"You must know why he rejected me. What is wrong with me?" Eragon begged. A spasm of pain from the spirit inside him caused Eragon to clutch his stomach, falling to his knees as the misery spread throughout his body. Sweat beaded at his forehead while hair veiled his grim face from view.

"I . . . I do not know. Perhaps it has to do with The Spirit." Arya said a little too quickly. Eragon raised his eyes to see her standing over him. She helped him up, and Eragon eyed Cambion, confusion pouring from his eyes.

"You could not stop it?" Eragon asked.

"I could not. Like I said before, it seems to dislike Elves. And my words of calming are losing effect." Cambion bowed his head once more.

"You need to be strong, Eragon. Oromis will not train you, but we will. Our armies are the best in the Empire. Young Elves from high-ranking houses learn here, in Gillendel. The martial Headmaster has agreed to improve your skill with the blade and with various spells." Arya assured.

"But it is not enough. I needed to learn from a real Rider. One that could help Saphira and I deepen our connection. Now-" Eragon stopped as another shockwave of pain shuddered through him. He gasped as all the breath left his lungs, and for a few moments could do nothing but breathe heavily, regaining his breath.

"Brom is gone. Or Caomhim. Whatever he was. He lied to me." Eragon rasped.

"My mother has told me he has been sent to kill my eldest sister." Arya informed.

"You have a sister?" Eragon said, shocked.

"We do not call her by name. She is known as Suhureliel Omshurtag. Witch-Sear. She is the one who destroyed the land we crossed."

Eragon remembered the gray fields filled with nothing but crumbling brick buildings and mummified corpses. He shivered at the image.

"I came to tell you that Brom has left. I do not know when he will return, Eragon." Arya spoke softly, almost reassuring.

"I will train you as well. I am not near as skilled as Oromis is, but I can teach you deeper things of magic. As a Valbhorethlian, I have access to various scrolls that contain power and long forgotten spells."

Eragon nodded his head weakly, his mind filling with despair.

"But for now, let is make our way to the training grounds. Prince Orik, Cambion, come with us as well." Arya commanded. Orik rose from his seat and Cambion slinked towards her, and together they all left the massive room, while Eragon's mind dwelt on darker tidings.

_Oromis said I would die if he did not train me. What does that mean? _

The Spirit began to whisper in that strange tongue again, and Eragon attempted to shut the noise out. It persisted, increased in potency, until it was the only thing he heard. Slowly, the words began to sound more and more like the language he understood. The Spirit said one thing.

_Death. Death. Death. _It repeated the chant, a beating drum foreshadowing the fiery annihilation that awaited them all.


	76. Eldest Chapter Eleven

ELDEST CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Focus, Elva. One mistake can tear the world asunder." Angela hovered above Elva, her legs crossed as her hair gently lifted around her face.

"You keep saying that, and it is really starting to make me feel like I actually _will_ mess up, and tear the fabric between the world of Shades and ours apart." Elva answered starkly as sweat formed on her brow, sliding down the curve of her cheeks and down the nape of her neck. Fire, _red _fire, not the blue flames of mages, crisply burned in a tight circle in her open palm. Her legs were crossed as well, and she was lifted a foot above the ground, grass waving below her.

"You haven't turned into a Shade yet. So that's something. Now, transmute the flame into water." Angela ordered. Elva's frown grew deeper as she focused in concentration. She changed the properties of the flame, gradually changing the properties of the element. She could feel the fire grow heavier as it turned into liquid, feel the slight heat it gave off lessen, and turn into a calming cool. Finally, a swirling ball of dark water turned in her hands. Elva glanced up at Angela, smiling underneath a head covered with sweat drenched hair. She dropped her hold on the water, and it splashed against her hands and wrists, dripping down the sides of her fingers, onto the land below.

"Good. You have just done what no Mage could ever hope to aspire to. Without the constraints of spoken word, you can easily change magical principles. Transmutation is one of the purest forms of magic there is. You have a long way to go, but it is a start." Angela alighted to the ground, small feet touching down onto the beryl shaded earth. Around them, the Impori gathered their belongings. They were to begin the long trek to Aroughs, were Angela planned to ally with the Varden. Elva didn't know how she felt about that. She had viewed herself, and the Impori, as free individuals, and now they were allying themselves to the Langfelds. The Impori kept the old way of the west alive, as opposed to the eastern half-elf Langfeld line. Still, it was not her place to judge.

Oxen carrying large loads of supplies grunted while men carried dried meat provisions and baskets filled with sun-toasted berries. Hard bread was collected and stored within stone squares covered by thin hide skins, while fresh venison was kept in coolers filled with precious ice from last winter.

"How do you feel, Elva?" Angela asked as she motioned Elva to walk with her. The young girl quickly took up step with her master.

"Confused. These lands are my life. Now I am leaving all of this for a King I am not sure I believe in." Elva said, ashamed at her blunt honestly. Angela gave her an amused half-smile.

"My dragon bones allow me glimpses into the future. I have seen what will soon come to destroy our land. We must learn to drop the false barriers among the races of Alagaesia, and unite as one people."

Elva raised an eyebrow as they stopped, waiting for a train of oxen lumber by.

"And you believe this . . . Orrin Langfeld to be the one who will unite the land?" She questioned. Angela shrugged, giving Elva another grin.

"Honestly, I don't know. What I do know is that he has married a Dwarib. He has several Elf Delan under his banner, and there is a rumor that the Elven Empire has officially joined their cause with him. The Varden has become a beacon to all of the peoples of this world."

"Against Galbatorix. But you have said he is not the real threat." Elva stated, walking forward again as wind passed through the empty space between them. They had camped on a large stony hill, and the land below was shaded by a thin veil of morning fog. Angela looked down at the area that lied underneath their gaze, blue eyes reflecting deep thought. Elva watched Angela for a moment, and then turned her own eyes away. Finally, the woman spoke.

"Galbatorix is not evil. He never was. Nothing is truly evil. This is not a war of good versus bad, but rather a battle of _will. _The people that fight Galbatorix now seek revenge. They seek land they lost. They want closure. But none of those things are inherently _good." _

"Not even revenge?" Evla questioned, feeling like a child when she saw Angela grace her with a long-suffering smirk.

"We can delude ourselves into thinking revenge is justice. But what is it? There will always be innocent parties involved. If you killed a man who killed me, for instance, would you call that revenge?" Angela asked.

"Yes . . . I think." Elva answered.

"And what if that man had a son? Would it be justice if he sought your death for killing his father? Is he inherently evil because of his father's actions?" Angela tested. Elva looked down at her pale hands, tracing the lines on them with her eyes.

"No. He would be like me." She said, finally.

"Revenge is not justice. And this war is a battle of _Revenge. _I plan to join the Langfelds because they have most of the realm united under their banner. I will see if Galbatorix can see reason . . . he is no fool. But I fear that portions of _Golhlobor_ have invaded the world already. It is possible that Galbatorix may be under the influence of his power."

"But Golhlobor was sealed long ago. How is that possible?"

Angela scrunched her nose, as if she smelled something foul.

"I don't know how it is possible. But I sense an awareness from across the realm of the dead, evil eyes watching world events. Waiting. I believe that in his last moments, Golhlobor separated his consciousness, so that he could persist in the living world until the time came to where he would be complete again, so he could attempt to destroy all life for a second time."

Elva could not imagine a greater evil. The fact that this Golhlobor had so much power . . . and what's more, such an intense intelligence he could plan that far ahead in the future . . . Elva shivered as she wrapped her arms around a thin body.

"It looks like everyone is ready." Angela announced happily, clapping her hands together.

"Go fetch Solembum. I wish to speak with him."

Elva's eyes widened.

"But you said-"

"You are officially no longer under my watch, little one. You can have your freedom again, and speak to the Xoshan. But if you do anything so foolish again . . . well, okay, three more times, your punishment will be very severe." Angela said, still grinning. Elva yelped in unbidden glee, and scampered off to go find Solembum, after which they would go South, to join the war effort. Despite herself, Elva was excited. She would finally get a chance to test her powers.

(Line Break)

Nasuadon barely contained his rage. A handsome dark brown face frowned while slanted eyes thinned, muscled arms crossing a broad chest. A fishnet tunic covered his torso, while the cloak of the Dusk Riders proudly hung on his shoulder.

"How do you know?" He asked. Nasuada's face was dimly lit in her dark room, a candle wavered in light, giving his sister a strangely haunting face. Silver tears glistened as they traveled down her cheeks, absorbing the orange light that was given off by the waxen dip that sat on her study.

"I have felt it," She gasped. "I can feel him inside me."

Nasuadon remembered what they had done to Murtagh. He couldn't imagine what they would do to his sister.

"How could you be so _foolish?" _He spat, and she shied away from his words. Dark hair fell over her face, while a hand covered a gasping mouth.

"I loved him, brother. I loved him. I betrayed Murtagh. And now-" She moved her hand away from quivering lips, and placed it on a stomach covered by a white dress, a small bump visible from underneath the clothing.

"I don't understand. It would have to have been conceived before the battle of Farthen Dur." Nasuadon said, placing both hands on his partially shaved head.

"It happened on the ship. When we sailed to the Dwarib." Nasuada whispered. Nasuadon remembered that night, remembered talking with Murtagh above deck, as the moon shone over the glimmering dark sea.

"You should be showing more . . . this is not a normal pregnancy." Nasuadon said carefully. He was right- It had been about seven months since Farthen Dur, that bitter battle that effectively splintered the Varden. They had won Aroughs, but Nasuadon knew the next battles would not be so easy. The North was buckling under Morzan's assault.

Murtagh's father.

His unborn nephew's _Grandfather. _

"You said you know it is a boy?" Nasuadon interrogated. His sister gave him a sad smile.

"Yes. I have started seeing him in my dreams. He appears to me as a young boy, Nasuadon. His skin is like the tawny sand of our home. His eyes are a dark green, and his hair is long, so long. He speaks to me." Nasuada's smile faded.

"What does he say?" Nasuadon pressured.

"He says he loves me. He says that he will come soon, and he says he cannot wait to see me. But he also looks sad. His eyes are the ones of a child that has seen death. Hollow and questioning."

"Madness!" Nasuadon screamed. "They will _kill you, Nasuada!" _Nasuadon turned away from her as she began weeping anew.

"I have to find Murtagh. The Twins helped him escape. I believe I know where they took him."

"Where?" Nasuada asked. Nasuadon's eyes darkened as he turned to face her.

"Uru'baen." He said coldly.

"What good would that do? Why would finding him help us?"

"If you have the child here, questions will be asked. If you have it here, talk will spread. It is no secret you were fond of Murtagh. A half-Jahadman child with green eyes- Who else could the father be? We will need to travel to Uru'baen. And somehow, you will have to find a way for Murtagh to forgive you."

Before Nasuada could answer, Nasuadon spoke again.

"We leave tonight. Pack your things. Tell not one soul. I will not leave you to die, sister. I promise you."


	77. Eldest Chapter Twelve

-ELDEST CHAPTER TWELVE-

"Another betrayal."

Orrin stood on the still-ruined wall that surrounded Aroughs, swamp water gently moving through the man-made canals that snaked about the city. Men surrounded him, torches burning in their hands while the spring moon mocked them.

_Why, Nasuada? _

"It will be hard to find them, Orrin. Nasuadon is a Dusk Rider. He will know how to cover their tracks."

"Right now I want to discover what events lead to this. Find everyone who had spoken to the pair last, and have them questioned." Orrin ordered, feeling the weight of his crown on his head, while the stress of war and politics dragged down his shoulders.

"It will be done, My King." His captain of guard said with a brisk nod. Sanjaat, the new Lord of Aroughs, inspected his land with eyes unable to be read. Light brown hair was tied into a long braid that rested on the side of his neck.

"It bodes well for my Kingdom, does it not? That my vizier would leave me in the midst of a war." Orrin said with a bite of cynicism.

"Betrayal is a way of life. As humans, we reject the notion, refuse to believe that we would stoop so low. But we all have betrayed someone. And we all betray ourselves daily." Sanjaat leveled ultramarine pupils onto Orrin's similarly colored eyes.

"There is always the question that lingers- the burning reason that caused someone you trust to turn on you. But sometimes that truth is more painful than the physical action." Sanjaat's voice ran ominously as he was escorted by Orrin's royal guard, returning to his chambers. Sanjaat had pledged loyalty to the Varden and by extension, Orrin's Kingdom, but he was under watch, now more so than ever after the leaving of Nasuada and Nasuadon. Orrin wasn't sure what he thought of the boy: For a young soul of fifteen summers, he was incredibly bright, and had a grim view on all things. Sanjaat had watched his father die by Orrin's hand, and then bent his knee to Orrin that same night, all the while not one tear fell from Sanjaat's eyes. His mother, however . . . she refused to eat, and earlier today had thrown herself off of the battlements at the first opportunity, cursing the Varden.

Again, Sanjaat watched while his mother was fished out of the swamps below, her neck unnaturally limp while it rolled on her shoulders. Sanjaat was a being of practicality, seemingly unbothered by horrific situations. As long as Sanjaat remained loyal and in turn kept the local survivors in line, he would serve his purpose. They had been able to open the docks of Aroughs, and trade from the Dwarib slowly began to trickle into the city. The underground empire of Farthen Dur was still low on food, however, and Orrin would need to capture more of the mainland if he was to keep both his people and his dwindling army alive.

What he needed was a vizier. What he needed was Nasuada.

_Why? _

"I have seen enough of the sun." Orrin announced dully as he stepped away from the serrated fence that kept people (of the non-suicidal variety) from falling off the wall. Precious stone from Farthen Dur was being set on destroyed portions of it, breaking the uniformity of the sandy-colored brick that had protected Aroughs while it waved the Empire's flag.

With a click of his heels, Orrin strode away, turning around and walking down a long stone path, guards behind and before him. They came to the door of a half-refurbished turret, and walked inside. Darkened somewhat, they began their long descent down into the main courtyard of the castle.

_It had to have been because of Murtagh. _

Orrin knew Nasuada fancied him- she had since she first laid eyes on the dark-haired youth back in Surda. Orrin smiled- an unsweetened and vinegary expression as he reflected on the past. Things were so different now . . . The young King shook his head as he descended down a flight of stairs, finding himself at the base of his courtyard. He remembered his near-death battle with the former Lord of Aroughs, his wounds aching while he walked. His sword felt heavy on his belt, cleansed of all the blood that it had bathed in days before. Orrin shook as he was escorted to his chambers.

_Father wouldn't falter. I have to kill. I am a King. _

_Father is a psychopath. _

Orrin silenced the voices that mumbled in his head, passing through a door as it was opened for him, and then again climbing a second fleet of stairs. His boots clacked against the fine stone cuts that raised him higher and higher, until finally he reached his chambers. Two guards stood at his doors, stomping their feet as they straightened spears.

"All hail King Orrin!" They cried. Orrin waved his hand at them, while he reached for his door. Orrin could smell the sweet perfume from within his room, and he could almost picture Naise, his Dwarib wife. Aside from her six fingers, she was comely, with a strong body and pretty black eyes. She was as tall as most average human women, and spoke with an enchanting accent. Orrin had disliked her, but after spending more than a few sleepless nights, he knew that she had him wrapped around her thin fingers.

Orrin walked past his doorway as guards closed the door after him. His dwelling had a floor of mauve marble, with a circular bed hidden by black drapes. Lancet windows gave Orrin a sliver of a view to the city below. Aside from the bedroom, there was a large washroom, and a second area where they took their meals. But it was from the door leading to the washroom that Naise entered from. She wore a green gown that accented her curves, while shined hair fell to her waist. Six fingered hands clasped themselves together, and dark eyes devoid of pupils regarded Orrin as Naise's mouth curled into a smile.

"My King." She whispered. Orrin bowed his head at her.

"My Queen."

Naise approached him, wrapping herself around his torso.

"Did you find any answers today?" Naise questioned as she lead Orrin to the foot of their bed. Now sitting, he let out a heavy sigh.

"No. I don't understand it, Naise. I don't know why she would betray me. Nasuadon . . . we were friends ever since I was a young boy. Nasuadon's father helped my own . . . before he was killed." Orrin said quietly. Naise held his head, holding close to her chest.

"Hear my heart- it aches for you. But you must pick a new vizier. You cannot rule the realm on your own." Naise advised.

"But who? There is no one qualified." Orrin answered quickly. Naise made a tsking sound, placing a slim finger on Orrin's mouth.

"There is one . . . though he is far away. My brother Vermal Nyste."

"Isn't he busy in Tronjheim?" Orrin asked.

"The repairs are nearly done, I'm sure they do not need his direction. Vermal can come to take Nasuada's vacant position . . . what's more; he can bring a _merchant army." _

" Can you send word to Vermal?" Orrin remembered the Dwarib man. He was very bright, and Orrin did not doubt he could solve the problems afflicting them.

"At once, my sweet King." Naise whispered, before locking her mouth into his.


	78. Eldest Chapter Thirteen

-Eldest Chapter Twelve-

(A/N) Just a quick announcement… I know that some of you are very . . . 'eager' about my story, and I appreciate that. Keep the reviews coming, they help a lot (especially when some of the astute readers find misspellings/grammar errors that I have missed. However . . . some of you have made comments about the story itself, the mythology behind it, or view their own conceptions as fact. While I love people comparing and contrasting, everyone needs to realize a few things.

1-THIS IS *MY* rewrite. Not Christopher Paolini's. The story is called ALTERNATE WORLD for a reason. Because it IS AN ALTERNATE WORLD! So while I appreciate emails about what happened in the original stories, I don't care because this rewrite follows a much different plot.

2-This is a Dark Fantasy story. Now, I realize that I did not state this at chapter one or anything, so I can forgive some people that are taken aback by the situations/violence. Dark Fantasy stories usually have more mature themes, characters, and realistic portrayals of people in realistic situations in a fantasy setting. Plot armor is very thin, and people WILL be maimed and killed. No character is safe from that fate in this rewrite. So while I appreciate emails talking about how some scenes were disturbing, I have to say that I'm sorry but that won't change. The violence in this rewrite is at "Teen" level, so I won't be changing the rating.

3- My story, my mythology. This is the most annoying for me- when people feel the need to correct aspects of my rewrite. Christopher Paolini didn't create dragons, he didn't create magic, and he certainly didn't create elves. I'm sorry that this story isn't the typical stereotyped fantasy world with run of the mill features. One of the reasons my rewrite is read by people is because it is a different setting. But people still FEEL the need to nitpick certain features of the races here. The most amusing (to me) is people finding fault with "talking dragons."

DRAGONS HAVE TALKED FOR AGES. In Tolkien, in Earthsea, and countless other mediums. I get the feeling that many of you haven't read much aside from the light-fantasy world of CP, which leads to confusion. But you need to understand that fantasy stories ALL have different interpretations of famous races. For instance, my Dwarves are also called Dwarib, and they are not midgets. I believe in the Elder Scrolls series it is the same there. So what you need to do is read with an open mind, and save any useless criticism that doesn't help the story. If you want a boring rehashed Inheritance, there are plenty of other stories more popular than mine that will not challenge your mind to adapt to new concepts. I'm sorry for how harsh this sounds, but it is really annoying as an author for people to IGNORE events occurring, alliances breaking and being reformed, and other aspects of my story and focus SOLELY on what they perceive as "corrections."

4-THIS STORY DOES NOT FOLLOW THE FLIPPITY FLAPPING CANON! *THIS* REALIZE THIS! With all of the changes, I DON'T UNDERSTAND how people can STILL think that I'm following canon. As stated earlier, this DOES NOT FOLLOW CANON! You've all already read Inheritance! Why would you want to read it again? YES, I named Morzan's dragon. YES, his dragon is black. YES, Brom is using his own sword. YES Oromis isn't old, YES Orrin is a jerk, YES Galbatorix is blonde with green eyes. ALL of these changes (and more) Were made to make the world CP made more ORIGINAL and INTERESTING! You know it's funny someone emailed me saying I made some contradictions, so I was like

"Okay, thanks for catching them would you mind telling me where I made them?"

And he went through the effort of finding them . . . but the contradictions were in conflict with the ORIGINAL SERIES! People, this is an alternate WORLD. If you can't grasp that concept, unfollow this story and go follow the dozens of other copy-paste Eragon books on here. Like I said, many of them are a hell of a lot more popular than mine. Yes, I am a little bitter. I said this before but it is annoying that people ignore so many important plot points and decide to waste an email or a review with some dumb complaint. I spend at least 30 minutes to an hour with every chapter, and I try to make it the best work I can.

*sigh*

Anyway, here's chapter twelve.

RORAN huddled closer to the orange fire that crackled amid a circle of black stones. Smoke rose silently into the air, creating a gray sheen between the shining night sky and the ground. Still, bright stars shone brilliantly through the haze, while the cold and crisp scent of midnight mixed with the smell of burning wood. Long brown hair teased the point of Roran's chin while a great beard surrounded his jaw. His body had grown stronger and wider, with massive biceps and powerful legs. His chest was broad, and his shoulders were large and round.

"Commander Magebane."

Roran did not drop his gaze from the stars, but his ears listened to the man who approached from the forest of tents that dwelled below him.

"Yenlick Barrow." Roran said with a warm smile. This time, he did lock eyes with the man. Yenlick was of the pure North, with pale skin and dark-colored hair. He wore a bear-skin cloak, the upper jaw of the creature resting above his head. Teeth framed his eyes alongside bangs, while an iron greatsword poked from over his shoulder. Yenlick bowed stiffly, not out of disrespect for Roran, but rather because of the cold.

"It's spring. It shouldn't be so frigid." Yenlick chittered, eying Roran's fire enviously.

"Come, sit." Roran said with slight bemusement. Yenlick grunted happily, unstrapping his sword and letting it fall heavily to the ground. He sat, cross-legged, beside Roran, placing his palms out before the fire.

"How are the Imperials acclimating?" Roran inquired. Yenlick was in charge of the Imperials who had forsaken their vows, and took up oath with Roran. They were the survivors of his victories against the Empire- before his long string of defeats. He knew the general he fought now was Morzan, a member of the Forsworn.

The man was a tactical genius.

It was said that Roran had natural born instincts when it came to war- which was true. He could make decisions in a heartbeat that would take minutes in other men, and see strategies intermixed with maneuvers and guerilla warfare when he gazed upon a campaign map. But Morzan . . .

He saw through every feint, every false lead. They had yet to meet face to face with the man's army, but other generals under Roran, following his direction, were destroyed. Stragglers from their army would come upon Roran's camp like wraiths, with wide eyes and skin covered with black smut. They spoke of Morzan calling asteroids of fire down on them, told of the Forsworn breathing fire into their faces while he fought. It was gleaned that Morzan did not fight with his dragon, but despite that, he was still immensely powerful. Roran remembered the markings on his body protecting him from magic, hoping that they would come to his defense when he finally faced Morzan. Roran had learned that he could _direct _the power that guarded him onto others- creating a sort of unbreakable ward as long as Roran maintained his focus. He was training with Pike mages day and night, perfecting his mind so that he might be able to save a few hundred men from Morzan's asteroids.

"They are adapting well. Our own men seem to have warmed up to them. However . . . my scouts say the Forsworn is on the march." Yenlick said conversationally. Roran knew the news was coming. They had initially marched far into the south of the northern regions when they received word of a renewed Imperial offensive. But with each defeat, they were driven back up north. Now, they were held up in Gil'ead, former Imperial territory. They would make their last stand here. If they failed, they would be forced to retreat to the lands of House Pike, while the Empire gathered fleeing Northern Houses who would no doubt shift loyalties in exchange for their lives.

"This Morzan . . . he does not seem human." Roran laughed bitterly.

"I had hoped I would taste peace before the bitter sting of defeat."

Yenlick chuckled at that, taking a stick and moving the embers of the fire about.

"We are amidst the air of peace now, are we not? The calm before the storm." Yenlick grinned.

"We will kick that bastard back to Uru'baen." He added strongly. Roran thought of Katrina. He thought of the countless lives that had begun anew within the township amidst the land of Gil'ead. He then tried to picture Morzan. What did he look like? What was the sound of his voice? The shade of his hair? Roran could not begin to see the man's physical features. The Forsworn seemed to be a class above humans, a god within a physical body. The haunting tales of survivors who partook in battles against him did Roran no favors. He was told of fields that contained nothing but bubbling craters filled with hot blood, while grass burned in the thick embrace of a dark blue blaze. They spoke of a man who wielded the sword with deadly precision, a being that could turn away one hundred arrows with the flick of his fingers, and the send them flying back to their source.

"What happens if we lose, Yenlick. What happens then?" Roran asked quietly. Yenlick smiled, but his eyes glowed with uncertainty. He looked away from Roran and up into the sky.

"As a fellow Northman, you understand the stars like I do. They always seem so close." Yenlick reached above his head, and opened his hand.

"I feel as if I can grab a handful, and put them in my pocket. I would give them to my wife, to my young son. You must think of them, Roran. If we lose, they will surely die." Yenlick stated grimly. Roran shuddered. He had almost lost Katrina once, he would not allow her to leave him. Not now. He saw her smiling face, he saw her eyes. He could feel the softness of her hair, the eager and supple curves of her womanly body. He could feel her stomach, and he could sense the small and quivering life that grew within, saw her eyes as she stared at him, pride written over his face.

_I am with child, Roran. You are going to be a father. _

"There is no option but victory. You are right, Yenlick." Roran's heart gladdened when the man slapped him on the shoulder.

"You have lead us through thick and thin. This Forsworn will fight real Northemen, when the day comes."Roran felt the power of command surging within him, strength that he had lost. Resolve hardened and stationed itself in the dark confines of his heart, while his eyes blazed with determination.

"Have a watch set up. From the dark woods to the green plains. Have our mages deny the Imperial magic users the use of their scry-pools. I want groups of forty men, mounted archers, to harry the Imperials as they approach." Roran ordered.

"It will be done Commader." Yenlick said with a heavy sigh as he rose to his feet. He retrieved his sword, and strapped it back between his shoulders.

"You are strong, Roran. Never forget that. The North never will." Yenlick descended from Roran's hill, and into the camp.

Roran would find Morzan on the field of battle. And Roran would kill him. Forsworn or not, Morzan will die by Roran's hand. He would not tolerate any threat to Katrina. His mind drifted to his brother, Eragon, who was half way across the land. He knew that Eragon was off in Du Weldenvarden, prancing with Elves when he should be here, defending their home.

_Eragon is a fool. _Roran simmered. But still, the love the two brothers shared for one another was still strong, and despite his anger, Roran prayed for the best.

_You're a fool, Eragon. But you need to make sure you don't become a dead fool. _

Roran spent the rest of the night watching the celestial bodies above him, aloof to the quarrels of men while they lit the dark skies.


	79. Eldest Chapter 14

-Eldest Chapter 14-

(A/N) QUICK THING! I updated the cover on my original work on amazon, and I updated the file as well. It's still free on my website, but you can buy it on amazon if you think it is worth purchasing. Also regardless if you bought it or not, could you leave a review? I feel like it would get more attention if it had some reviews xD. Anyway, I'm working on a new original story, but I will continue to update this one. Enjoy!

HIS army was gathered. Behind him, the rebuilt fortress of Gil'ead stood in the morning air. In front of him, a wide valley spread far as the eye could see, leading to the warmer climate found in the south. Cerise flowers waved gently in the wind, causing the field to look like a waving red sea. Roran lowered his head, the half-helm he wore causing his neck to strain in protest. His horse dug at the ground below, picking up dark brown chunks of dirt that clung to polished hooves.

"I sense him." Lorgainne said softly. The mage had joined Roran's forces after his own followers had been murdered by the rouge wizard at the haunted fortress. Roran remembered the day well- It was then he gained the strange markings that averted the touch of magic, and protected him from malicious wards or curses.

"What does it feel like?" Roran asked. He could hear the low chatter of men behind him- The last vestiges of his army. The bulk of the Northern military that the Varden possessed was here now- a massive force of seventeen thousand men culled from nearby Houses and holdfasts. If they were defeated, only House Pike would remain to defend the North from the Imperial blitzkrieg.

"Anticipation. I can almost taste his killing intent, Roran. This Morzan will show us hell itself. Gods protect us." Lorgainne prayed. He wore the traditional bone armor of his people, and his two pets- the fox and the badger, snuck about in the shadow of his horse. Newlyn Pike sat at the front of his army, resplendent in his bone-mail armor. He wore a full-helm crafted entirely of human skulls, with large horns melted to the diamond-covered temples of his mask. His face was a shining terror, a foe that would cause men to flee in fear.

"It's strange." Roran started softly. Lorgainne gave him a questioning look.

"What is?" He asked.

"It's so peaceful. A few days ago Yenlick had said times like these were the calm before the storm." Roran smiled wistfully as a calming burst of wind passed over him, cooling his body.

"We do not face a storm. We are in the eye of Armageddon itself. We will be lucky if we survive this battle." Lorgainne lifted his chin.

"They come. The army comes."

The valley descended in a gradual curve, hiding any oncoming movement from their view. But Roran knew as well as Lorgainne did that Morzan was marching his men directly into conflict with their own army. It was not long until the haunting horn of the Imperial army was heard. It was a drawn out sound- high pitched and shrill. It was accompanied by beating drums as Roran saw a man, a single man step over the curve of the hill that lead into the wide plains.

"Morzan of the Forsworn." Lorgainne whispered. Roran leaned forward in his saddle, trying to get a glimpse of the far-away figure. He saw raven-dark hair waving in the wind, and a body covered in armor the color of night. But other than that, he could not make out any unique features. Morzan, so far, was simply a man. Roran allowed himself to relax somewhat- Perhaps the stories were wrong, perhaps the armies he defeated were simply scared . . . perhaps he uses tricks and deceptions, rather than god-like power.

It was then that the clouds above them parted. Men turned their eyes to the heavens as the sky _churned._ A gray mist swirled and reddened, twirling clouds with it as the funnel reached the ground. Too late men attempted to flee, only to be caught inside the massive tornado that had sprouted in the middle of their ranks. Horses screamed as swords were pulled from hands, while chariots lifted into the sky, screaming steeds still tied to tethers that sealed their deaths.

"RORAN!" Lorgainne screamed as he was pulled into the tornado. Roran shook his head, breaking himself from the lock of fear. He placed his hands out towards the tornado, focusing his mind and channeling the power that was given to him. A loud _boom _sounded as an explosion of air dissipated the tornado, causing those flying in its embrace to fall to the ground roughly.

"Such power . . . " Lorgainne gasped as he regarded the destruction that the tornado had wrought. Trails of dug-up earth riddled the land they stood on, while the panoply of war was scattered about- swords jutting from the flowery land while chariot wheels rolled about, only to fall over.

"So it is true. You can avert the touch of magic."

Roran turned his head to see Morzan, first of the Forsworn, standing by his horse. He was pale, as if the sun had never touched his skin. Eyes bright while dark at the same time regarded him with almost tangible distaste and hatred. His face was handsome- long with a pointed chin, while black bangs beat at his forehead, and trailed down the slight curve of his nose, nearing the tip of his upper lips.

_He looks like Eragon. Only with lighter skin and hair the color of coal. No, his eyes are different too. They are ageless. An evil wisdom lurks behind them- eyes that only one who has reached the state of immortality can possess _

Morzan jumped backward and flew into the air, drawing his sword from the scabbard that hung at his waist_. _Beyond him, his army made their appearance. Rows upon rows of men marched into the valley, spears pointed high in the air while dark-colored horses patted against the ground, carrying similarly dressed knights. All of them wore the emblem of the Empire, the three-pronged orb of fire.

"Fight, me, MAGEBANE!" Morzan howled as a torrent of fire erupted from his mouth.

"Back away!" Roran cried as Lorgainne and the others who stood with him followed his orders. Newlyn shied away from the fire as it came hurtling down to their faces. Roran reached out with his hand, and he could feel the enchantments working- he could feel the power coursing through his arms as the fire was blown away. Gasping for breath, Roran sagged in his saddle as Morzan alighted to the ground, his boots crushing a patch of flowers.

"Interesting. It seems the tales are true. Tell me, Magebane. How many have you killed in this fruitless war?" Morzan asked. He had the face of a young man, a face so like Eragon's, and by extension, his own.

"I do not remember the ones I have killed. I do not think about things such as that."

"FIRE!" Newlyn cried as arrows descended upon Morzan. The man looked up dully, and smiled as the projectiles burned mid-flight, and vanished in the air as nothing more than ash.

"You should never forget those you kill. It can drive you mad, Magebane. I learned long ago that fact. If you fail to remember them, they will be sure to remember you. Your nights will be filled with horrors beyond imagination, an unspeakable evil that will gnaw at your neck while everything you love is torn asunder. You believe you are noble by forgetting their faces? I will tell you something, boy. One who forgets the people he has killed is not a hero. He is a coward."

Roran narrowed his eyes at the Forsworn.

"Why are you telling me this?" He asked.

"Because when I kill you, I will remember your face."

Roran suddenly was lifted into the air as Morzan jumped from the ground. His body was pulled towards Morzan's waiting hand, dozens of feet above the field below. They rose higher and higher, the two armies becoming nothing but tiny splats of color on a green landscape.

"You can attempt to free yourself, but I wonder if you would survive the fall." Morzan jested from above the sound of rushing air. He flew down then, so fast that Roran felt his stomach jump high into his chest. They landed in a cleared area, ash-trees surrounding them, hauntingly white. Morzan threw Roran away, and the man rolled on the ground until he crashed against the trunk of a tree that sat on the perimeter of the area.

"I intend to kill you myself, Magebane. Let the armies of men fight one another unbothered."

Morzan raised his sword- the blade was of the color of sanguine and ebon. A longsword, the hilt was fashioned in the likeness of a black dragon.

It was a weapon of malice.

Roran pulled his warhammer from his belt. He held his weapon before his body, while Morzan circled. His brown eyes focused on the green pupils of Morzan, while the man held his blade close to his face.

"What is your name, Magebane?" Morzan needled.

"Roran." Magebane replied sharply.

Morzan laughed, pouncing at Roran, his sword raised. Roran bent his knees to absorb the blow, but suddenly, Morzan vanished. Roran felt a _whoosh _of air tickle his ears.

_Behind . . . ! _

Roran turned his heels in the grass, his warhammer barely protecting him from the sharp edge of Morzan's blade. The Forsworn's hot breath grayed the shine of his sword while their faces were inches away from each other.

"Fast for a human." Morzan pushed Roran's weapon aside, and attempted to cut at his throat. Roran ducked underneath the attack, flipping his warhammer over to the sharp end, and rising with an attack of his own. Morzan flipped rearward in the air as Roran's hammer almost grazed Morzan's flesh. The Forsworn landed on his feet, charging at Roran without wasting a breath. Roran held out his weapon as they exchanged blows. He was backed into the forest, roots causing him to trip over himself. He fell as Morzan's sword came at his waist. Roran flipped his body over so that he landed on his back, narrowly missing Morzan's blade. The Forsworn grabbed Roran's leg, pulling him forward. As Morzan did so, Roran gripped his hammer, retrieving it while he reeled his arms in preparation. As he was hurled past Morzan's head, Roran crashed his hammer into the face of the Forsworn, who grunted in pain as he fell to the ground.

Roran tumbled backwards, behind the Forsworn as Morzan rose to his feet.

"I was not expecting that." He said conversationally.

_No time. _

Magebane rushed at Morzan, who flipped his blade in his grip, turning before Roran could react. All Roran felt was the sharp sting of Morzan's sword as it was dragged across his face. Blinded by his own blood, he ran past Morzan while the Forsworn's blade was dragged free of his flesh.

_Katrina. _

Roran wiped his eyes, his wrists smeared with red gore.

"Don't lose focus!" Morzan screamed as he renewed his assault. Morzan jumped in the air, attacking Roran's flank. Roran blocked the blow, turning aside Morzan's weapon and striking for the Forsworn's leg as he landed. Morzan stepped backward as Roran overextened his attack, and was rewarded with a lingering slash across his body. Roran ground his teeth as fresh blood splattered the green grass below him. His blood.

_Katrina, I promised I would keep you safe. _

He ignored the pain and roared, Morzan's eyes widening in amused surprise.

Roran struck for Morzan's head, and his sloppy blow was easily sidestepped by Morzan. His opponent cut Roran's leg as he passed, causing the man to fall over. Roran dug at the ground, attempting to pick himself up only to be struck in the chest by Morzan's boots. He fell over, and regarded the sky. It was a deep blue, vast and endless.

_I'm sorry, Katrina. _

Morzan stood over Roran, his blade pointed at Roran's chest.

"Roran Magebane."

_I couldn't keep you safe after all. _

Morzan's sword bit into flesh, pushing up blood as it squeezed past the harsh metal of Morzan's blade. Roran gasped in surprise. The blade was cold. Morzan pressed his sword deeper and deeper, until it exited out Roran's back and was buried into the ground. The hilt of the Forsworn's weapon touched Roran's skin as his vision faded. Morzan looked down at him, losing features and turning into a shadowy silhouette.

_Lorgainne. Keep Katrina safe for me. Bring her to the Varden in the south. I have failed. We have failed. The north is lost to us. Eragon . . . _

Tears glistened at Roran's eyes when he thought of his brother. They had left off on bad terms, and Roran had hoped he would be able to mend things with him. Now he was dying, and Eragon was thousands of miles away. Blood bubbled up from his mouth.

"Eragon . . . "He coughed up red phlegm, staining his beard while Morzan stood over him, watching him die. The Forsworn was nothing but a dark figure, seemingly hundreds of miles away from him.

As Roran's vision turned to blackness, he heard Morzan scream.

"_Hagganthil!" _


	80. Eldest Chapter 15

"Morzan."

The boy creaked his eyes open, thick blankets swaddling him as the fire in his bedchamber crackled on a black piece of wood. Outside of his window the world was still in night's embrace, and he saw his mother as her face was half concealed by darkness. All he saw was the left side of her visage; shaded vermillion eyes, a tiny flat nose, and full lips. Her hair blended into the somber color of the room: luscious and thick.

"Mother, why have you-" Morzan began, sleep still in his heart. His mother leaned over and kissed him firmly on the forehead, placing a hand on his cheek. She lingered there, her breath mixing with his.

"You have been selected, Morzan. The _culling_ has chosen you."

Morzan knew what the culling was. The Riders of Doru Araeba would send out scouts across the land, searching for those with the touch of magic. It was done to bolster the Rider's force and also maintain peace: Too many beings with the gift of spellworking in one area could incite war.

"Your father believes it is a blessing. He distrusts you." Morzan's mother said with a heavy sigh. It was true enough; He did not share any traits with his father- The man was a robust Lord with fiery red hair and blue eyes. His eldest brother shared those features, which lead to him being favored more. Morzan, however, was ostracized.

"I loathe to lose you . . . You have been given an opportunity, a _chance_ to grow and gain great power. The blood within you sings strong. If only I had another year . . . "

Morzan didn't know if it was her whispers or the hour of day that made him confused. She moved away from the boy, running a hand through his short hair.

"You are a Ceryani, Morzan. A pure-blood Ceryani. I birthed you with my own life, Morzan. Alchemy combined with creation magic. You are the resurgence of our once-great race. But you must be careful: Guard your heart while you learn. Once you begin to love you will experience strange visions, my son. Sights of the future. Darkness looms all around us, and I am afraid it will reveal itself during your life-time, and that of your sons."

There was a sudden shout, a rattling on Morzan's door. His mother jumped, but contained her composure.

"I had . . . " She paused as Morzan heard his father screaming her name.

She shook him then, tears falling down her cheeks.

"You are _pure,_ Morzan. You are the hope of the feature. Only a Ceryani could face this evil."

Light crashed into his chambers as his door flew open. His mother pressed against him, protecting him as the wood flew across the room, splintering into thousands of pieces.

"Goenethe, you disgusting _bitch." _Morzan's father curled back his lips, revealing crooked teeth as he raised the torch he carried.

Goenethe's eyes _glowed, _jumping from Morzan's side and onto the ceiling above.

"I knew that bastard boy did not belong to me. I found your study. Read your _research. _You're a damn _witch." _

Armed men were with Morzan's father. They advanced on Goenethe, swords at the ready. She jumped onto the floor, stretching out her hands. Two of the men jolted in pain as they were impaled by their own swords.

"Morzan, take my hand." Goenethe yelled as more men funneled into the room. Morzan was frozen, terrified as fear swam up his throat.

"You disgusting _animal!" _ Lord Ciriccian howled as he raised his own weapon. Goenethe whispered spells of binding at the man, and his arm was halted . . . but with a heavy grunt he broke threw them, his sword going down with impressive force and power. Goenethe cradled Morzan into her arms as she turned into the sword. Morzan could feel the blood that trailed off of her body, the warmness of it as the life-fluid stuck to his clothes. Goenethe gasped while she pulled Morzan off of his bed. The boy heard the blood of his mother spilling onto the ground. She lurched to his window, breaking it open with a mutter. Goenethe carried the boy across the night-time city of Uru'baen, her feet touching nothing but cool air.

_Flying. . . _

An arrow whizzed past them as Goenethe wavered. More came, some of them catching themselves on Goenethe's already wounded body. She descended slowly as they passed the giant white eye of the moon. The streets were silent then, and they found themselves crashing into a secluded alley covered with trash.

"Mother!" Morzan cried as he wrung himself free of her grip. He crawled from underneath her and cradled her head in his arms. Her eyes opened, the green of them fading away as a small smile curved her lips.

"Never forget who you are. Never forget the power you possess. Nor the strength of your children." She said softly. Her hands raised, intertwining with his.

"Stay here until morning. The Riders will find you. I . . . I will find you as well, Morzan."

A black plume of smoke burst into Morzan's face. The boy yelped, rubbing his eyes as he heard a flutter of wings. Looking up to the sky, he saw a flock of ebony birds crossing the moon, higher than the pointed tops of the buildings found within Uru'baen. Morzan wept, curling on the filthy ground while sobs racked his body. He found sleep then, and awoke to the sight of two armored men standing over him.

"Morzan Ciriccian." One of them smiled. He was blonde with bright green eyes, while the other had black hair with gold streaks running through it. This one had a square face, and Morzan realized that this man was actually an _elf. _

"Get up." The elf said harshly as he jerked Morzan upwards. The boy looked at the two of them with wide eyes.

"It's okay, Morzan. You're safe now." The man assured. His eyes shot daggers towards the Elf.

"It's our first culling assignment. You don't need to be so bitter." The man steadied Morzan on his feet. The boy still wore his bed-clothes, which were stained with dark red blood. The sight of it made him stutter into tears, remembering the men trying to kill his mother- and him, as well.

"What is wrong, boy?" The Elf snapped. Morzan looked away from him, hiding from the gaze of his blue eyes. The Elf simply took Morzan's chin, and forced the boy to lock eyes with him. Morzan felt the elf's mind as it ripped into his own. After a few moments, the Elf dropped the body like he was a bag of trash.

"His mother was killed. She was a Ceryani Witch." The Elf said with disdain. He drew his blade.

"Oromis! That is not your decision to make." The man said, stepping between Morzan and Oromis. The Elf narrowed his eyes, glaring at the human, until finally he stood down and thrust his sword back into its sheath with a loud _snap._

"Morzan, my name is Galbatorix, and this is my fellow Rider, Oromis. We are taking you away from here. Away from the pain. We are going to Doru Araeba."

(Line Break)

"Defense, you fool!"

Eragon staggered backward as the Elf he fought advanced.

_Always good to hear words of encouragement from Arya. _

The Elf sent him a heavy downwards blow that Eragon side-stepped, the weapon of his opponent crashing into the ground. Eragon rushed on his dazed foe, sending his sword to the feet of the Elf. The Elfman flipped over the blunted sword with trained grace, landing on his feet beside Eragon. A blow sent a chattering pain through Eragon's body as pain flared at his side.

_He struck me right on my scar. _

Eragon fell to the ground, writhing the Spirit inside his body thrashed about in retaliation. He gasped as air left him, muscles in his throat constricting while the Elf laughed. A few others took up his sound.

"Be silent. Or else I will cut out your tongues." Arya snapped. Eragon could hear her feet slap against the training square as she approached.

"Princess Arya, it is not customary for-"

"Does it look I _care_ about custom?" She retorted. The voice that Eragon recognized belonging to the headmaster fell silent. The pain left him as Arya leaned over to help Eragon to his feet.

"This human is young and weak and untrained, but he is a Rider. You will respect him." Arya ordered, and the Elves nodded.

"Can you stand?" She asked, quietly. Eragon nodded. She brusquely removed her support from his person, and he nearly lost his footing. A chortle of laughter was stifled from the watching Elves, who sat on mats that lined the training square's perimeter. Eragon frowned at them all, and turned to see Arya leaving the structure. He quickly limped after her, saw the tensed muscles of her back and the veins popping from her wrists as her arms held a thin waist.

"Arya," Eragon said breathlessly. She stopped but did not turn to face him.

"You're weak, Drakefyre." She said after a long moment of silence. The martial training quarters were within the outskirts of Gillendel. The city was in a remote corner of the greater province of Ellesmera, and was privy to the few remaining forests in the world of Elves. Beyond the statue of Aryan, a vast landscape existed, untouched by industry. It in this area that the training school was found. White pillars held up a triangle-shaped stone roof, while a quiet stream curled around the structure. Ahead, large trees occupied spots amongst rolling hills, while the sky was the color of deep cobalt. Heavy clouds lazily crossed the heavenly sea, while sweet music drifted into Eragon's ears from an unknown source.

"I'm trying my hardest." Eragon said defensively. Arya looked at him up and down, disgust on her face.

"You aren't trying hard enough." She said with finality. Stepping from the raised block of stone that lead to the headmaster's school, Arya walked on the cool grassy ground. Eragon frowned, following her.

"Why do you hate me?" Eragon asked.

"I don't hate you." Arya answered silently, still walking. They entered the valley that contained those beautiful hills that in turn possessed thick and ancient trees. Behind them, the Elf training school vanished in a sea of green foliage.

"Well, you don't like me, that's for sure." Eragon stated with a heavy sigh. Running a hand through his hair, he stopped in his tracks. Arya went on ahead, slender shoulders sloping. He watched her for a moment, and just as he was about to turn and leave, she called his name.

"Eragon. I wish to show you something." She said with an authoritative tone. Despite himself, Eragon followed her anew. Catching up with the Elf girl, he turned to face her as they walked.

"Show me what?" He leaned his head forward as he waited for an answer.

" I am sorry for the way I have treated you. The war . . . the sealed rebellion . . . my uncle. It has added to my already great stresses." Arya moved a long lock of her hair aside, revealing the healed scars that had ravaged her face almost a year ago.

"I have been focused on restoring honor to my Father's name. I . . . . I believed that I would do so through the power you hold from being a Rider. But I now realize that this is my own duty. Something I will have to fix with my own strength." Arya smiled weakly at Eragon.

"No . . . I can help you. I- I will try harder. I will become powerful. You've done so much for me, Arya. I want to help you succeed." Eragon reached for her arm, but then recoiled.

"Eragon . . . this is not something a human would understand. My legacy is something that only I can-"

"Enough of that!" Eragon shouted, stamping his feet onto the ground. Arya stopped walking, turning her head towards him, anger brimming behind pretty eyes.

"Ever since I arrived here, I've been constantly told that I wouldn't understand this or _that simply _Because I'm _human, _and for no other reason than that. You Elves need to create the illusion of superiority so badly you force everyone away. You don't need to regain your honor on your own. You have me and Saphira. Cambion . . . Elonubum and Orik. Brom and everyone else with the Varden. You _aren't _alone." Eragon insisted.

"What I wanted to show you is over here." Arya seemingly ignored what Eragon had said, and simply gestured to a patch of brilliant yellow flowers under the shade of a grove. In the dim light they stood out like stars, beautiful jewels of nature that instantly calmed Eragon's mind.

"They are called Summerseers. _Daemael Serami. _in Laen Elf. I remember when I was very young, Oromis would bring me here, to this tree. He would tie the flowers into my hair. I remember going to bed smelling them, and to this day they help me relax." Arya bent over and plucked one of the flowers from the ground.

"Your uncle loved Evander, didn't he?" Eragon's face softened. Arya looked up towards the sagging leaves that sprung from the collection of trees, pink blossoms sprouting from wiry bark.

"He did. Evander was his older brother, his light. When my father died he became more bitter than he already was."

Arya sniffed at her flower, and then began to fix it to her hair as she spoke.

"When an Elf woman becomes pregnant, the time it takes for the baby to develop depends on her alone. It can take months, or years. Some have even taken decades. I was no exception. I was conceived twenty years before Evander died. When I was born, I entered a world where our name was hated, due to the violence of my elder sister. Oromis spent all his days doting on me, in reverence to Evander. But as the days passed and the world grew darker, he spent more and more time alone."

"Why are you telling me this?" Eragon himself went over to where Arya stood, picking up a flower and giving it a delicate sniff. The aroma _was_ calming. Arya took the flower from Eragon's hands, and began to tie it into his own locks.

"Because what you said was true. I am an Elf, Eragon. There are things that you will not understand . . . but not many. I did not realize that I was surrounded by friends. Surrounded by beings that would help me in my greatest hour of need. And according to my uncle, you are not entirely human, either way."

Arya finished tying the flower to his hair, and gave him a genuine smile.

"Oromis knows much about me. How is that possible?" Eragon asked. Arya's eyes looked away from his, and her smile faded.

"I do not know," She said quietly. "But there is no point on dwelling on him. He has decided not to help us, so no thoughts should be wasted on my uncle."

Arya dropped her hands from Eragon's head.

" The Summer Fertility is neigh upon is. By that time, your Brom should be near Uru'baen."

Eragon knew of Brom's task, he knew of the foe he must face.

"Brom will succeed." Eragon said, affirming the possibility more to himself than to anyone else.

"We must not worry about Brom. With the end of the Summer Fertility, the rebellion will renew. My mother plans to have the Elves march to the Xoshan border, and end the conflict for good. We will accompany her."

Arya moved close to Eragon, her eyes boring into his.

"I will teach you to be strong."

She leaned in and kissed him. It was a slow and cumbersome kiss, awkward more than sensual. There was a sweetness to it, however, a pureness that Eragon could not describe. When her lips left his, he was speechless.

"I have never . . . I have never done that before," Arya said, reddening. Her face hardened.

"We should get back to Gillendel. The others are no doubt waiting for us." She said roughly, quickly fleeing the groveshade and walking back across the hills. Eragon smiled dumbly to himself, before wiping his face and walking underneath the shine of the radiant sun.


	81. Eldest Chapter 16

(A/N) SO! Yes, if you didn't realize it before, I am a Morzan fanboy. In the process of writing him I just really fell in love with his character. But the Morzan flashbacks (Morzback . . . flashzans? Yeah, Flashzans.) The Flashzans will reveal more about the history leading up to Galbatorix's rebellion. Some other news . . . An artist has agreed to collaborate with me to illustrate one of my story pitches! It is a manga-styled comic taking place in Japan. Also, if any of you are artists and want to work on a new concept with me, don't hesitate to ask. I'm really looking for talented artists to bring some ideas to life. So if you want to do something like that and have at least an hour a week to commit, feel free to message me! Even if you're just curious about some of my ideas, go ahead and message. Anyyywho , like I said I will be adding Brisingr. So the rewrite trilogy is in fact now a cycle. Also! I will be working on making the chapters longer, so that the amount of chapters people see isn't too huge. I know some people wanted me to make a new thread, but I have 32k+ views on this one and I loathe to let all those views go to waste. Anyway, enjoy!)

The battle was lost. Lorgainne pressed his spurs into the sides of his horse, panting heavily as streams of fire fell around him. They exploded into the ground with violent wroth, sending shards of rock-like shrapnel into the eyes of men who wore no head coverings. Gusts of wind tainted with flames licked at his back, while his two companions were huddled to his chest. Lorgainne steered his horse with one hand on the reigns, the hard rope wrapped around his wrist.

_Roran. What happened to you, Roran? _

He had left with Morzan after the battle began. They were losing steadily when the Forsworn had returned. Morzan turned the battle quickly into his favor. Newlyn was burned alive within his bone armor. Fields of men were turned into smoking pools of blood so hot it thickened into a wet and rubbery substance that halted any survivors from fleeing as their boots stuck into the sanguine mire. Lorgainne could feel the heat gaining on him. Screams beat at his ears as he rode, the horse that carried him whinnying frantically as hooves dug against the earth. He could see the township of Gil'ead now: Far away and untouched by the battle that had destroyed their last defense, their last hope.

The North was lost. The only thing that stood between the Empire and complete conquest was Pike's hold; a well-defended but isolated fort that could not withstand Morzan's onslaught.

_I need to find Katrina. I owe Roran that much. _Lorgainne hardened his gaze towards Gil'ead with newfound resolve. Fellow routing men rode past him, faces haggard with hollow eyes. For now, Morzan's rage seemed to be directed on the hundreds of men still on the battlefield who were slowly burning to death; their skin turned into black crisps over dried muscle and bone. Lorgainne traveled over a steep hill, and crossed a wide plain. He splashed across a small torrent, the water giving him a quick and cooling respite. Soon, the sounds of battle were faraway memories, a horrid dream from another age.

But Lorgainne knew what was coming. He lashed his reins harder as the horse bobbed its head underneath him, mane waving in the wind as they ran in unison. He came upon the gates as he saw a sentry poke his head from underneath the roof of a turret.

"Sound the alarm! Everyone must _flee!" _ Lorgainne cried. The man nodded quickly as he ran across the wall's battlements, ringing bells that were at the four corners of the stone barricade. The iron portcullis was drawn open agonizingly slow, while the few scattered survivors rode up on Lorgainne. His eyes passed over them all: They were of varying ages, true distinguishing features distorted by smut that covered their faces. They all had a look of confusion and bewilderment to them, while they panted to catch their breath.

"Magebane, what happened to Magebane?" One of them cried.

"I saw him carried off by Morzan." Another with blonde hair stained by ash noted.

"Roran Magebane is dead." Lorgainne said as he turned his head to see the gates fully opened.

"Gather your families and flee." He sped off without a second word. News of the defeat spread around the town quicker than the fires that decimated Lorgainne's armies. Lorgainne watched as women, children, and old men ran in the streets, packing food stuffs and other supplies onto carriages and wagons. Town guardsmen attempted to regain control, but there was no chance of that happening. Gil'ead was ablaze with fear. Some people rushed towards the castle, only to find the gates closed to them.

_They are better off running into the forest. Any fool who locks himself within that stone crypt will be cooked alive. _

Lorgainne wheeled his horse around and traveled down the dirt roads that laced between humble dwellings. He came upon Roran's home quickly, dismounting and gently placing his fox and badger onto the ground. Their fur reeked of fire, but they looked at him with brave determination as he racked on Roran's door.

"Katrina! KATRINA!" Lorgainne bellowed. Soon, the door opened and Lorgainne regarded Katrina with frenzied eyes.

"What has happened . . . " She began as she noticed the people running about on the streets. She placed a protective hand on her stomach.

"The battle was lost. Morzan has defeated us. He is occupied now, and we have only this small window of escape. Even if we get away, I am not sure if our continued survival is guaranteed." Lorgainne glanced behind him as two young men beat an older woman to steal her donkey.

"There is little time." He pressured. Katrina stepped backwards into her home.

"What . . . where is Roran? Where is Roran, Lorgainne?" Katrina's eyes grew a veil of water, and eventually drops of tears marked her fair face with dark impressions.

" . . . He was taken by Morzan. The Forsworn then returned to the battle alone. I am sorry, Katrina. Roran was killed. No doubt he fought bravely." Lorgainne bowed his head as sadness took him. Roran had become a friend to Lorgainne, and the bloodmage would miss him dearly. But he dare not take time to mourn the man now- not when he could save the woman Roran had loved.

"No . . . no! Roran he promised me he would be safe, he _promised!" _ Katrina attempted to shut the door on Lorgainne.

"He is _dead_, Katrina. He died protecting you. Do not let his sacrifice be in vain. You must gather what you can and come with me. Come with me and _live." _ Lorgainne looked at her as he could see a thousand thoughts racing through her head. Finally, with tears streaming down her face, she nodded.

"I need a moment." She whispered as she turned into the wooden home. Lorgainne turned his attention back to his horse.

Two men were attempting to steal it.

"Hey!" Lorgainne screamed as one of them tried to calm the animal as it reared. A second man clung to the saddle of the horse, bouncing about wildly. Lorgainne stretched out his hand towards the two thieves.

"Stenya Atal!" He cried as the men were lifted into the air and thrown down the street. They were nearly trampled by oxen, narrowly scrambling out of the way as the man that drove the beasts swore. At that moment, Katrina materialized out from her home, a small bag in her arms.

"I'm ready." She said quietly. Lorgainne soothed his steed, who stilled to his touch and words. He clambered up on the saddle, and gave a hand to Katrina. She climbed up behind him, hugging his waist as he fled Gil'ead. As Lorgainne crossed the plains, he lowered his head in concentration.

_Roran's brother is in Du Weldenvarden. That is the safest place in the realm right now. I only hope I can make it there alive. _


	82. Eldest Chapter Seventeen

-ELDEST CHAPTER SEVENTEEN-

(A/N) I was re-reading my chapters and I noticed I gave everyone long hair. Lol. I guess I have a thing for characters with flowing locks. (Cue picture of spongebob riding a seahorse with long blonde hair waving in the wind)

"ERAGON."

Drakefyre opened his eyes slowly, sleep crumbling off of him akin to how a bear shakes off accumulated snow from its fur. He raised himself in his bed, and found Cambion standing at the foot of his mattress. Saphira's mind roused with his, despite the fact she was some distance away; kept in the large gardens of Islanzadi's gigantic dwelling.

"Cambion, it's still early." Eragon muttered as he shook his hair. Uncut for the entire time he had been in Ellesmera, his dark brown locks (highlighted with red) Reached the bottom of his sharp jaw. Over-taxed muscles ached from his last training session, a reminder of his weakness.

"I know, Drakefyre." Cambion said silently as he moved around the mattress and to Eragon's side, assisting the novice Rider out of bed.

"But there is something you must know." Cambion locked eyes with Eragon though a shield of bright-blue hair.

"What is it?" Eragon asked warily. Cambion looked away from the boy as he left his shoulder, Eragon now able to stand on his own. Eragon furrowed his brows and stepped forward, wearing nothing but his bedclothes.

"What has happened?" He pressured as a loud snoring grunt came from the still-sleeping Orik.

" I only tell you this due to the fact you will find out today. The Spirit within you . . . It would be able to take advantage of your uncontrolled emotion. You must remain calm." Cambion placed his hands into one another, pressing flat palms together.

"As a Shade, I am constantly aware of the passing between life and death. As souls rejoin the earth, they are sensitive to my awareness. I learned some time ago that you had a brother named Roran who was stationed in Gil'ead." Cambion started. Eragon nodded, confused.

"Yes, I know this. He beat the initial Imperial attacks." Eragon brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes, frowning.

"The Forsworn named Morzan defeated the North. Gil'ead fell not long ago. There was an explosion of death in the area." Cambion looked away from Eragon once more. He went silent, his mouth turning downwards.

"Tell _me_ what happened to Roran." Eragon hissed. Cambion raised his hand towards Eragon, eyes growing bright.

"You need to control your emotion. I feel it. The Spirit." He warned. Eragon spat to the floor, turning away from Cambion and placing his hands on his head.

_What's wrong? _Saphira sounded in his mind.

_Roran. Something has happened to Roran. _

_Eragon . . . _

Saphira knew.

_Where did you find out? How did you hear? _

_My dwelling is close to where the Queen takes her walks. She was speaking with the Laen Elf Triumvirate leader, who had news of the defeat. He was told of Morzan, and how he singled out a human called Roran Magebane, according to reports. The surviving mages scryed these tidings to the Varden, who then warned the Elves._

_Is he dead, Saphira? _

_I do not know. _

Eragon faced Cambion again, eyes narrowed.

"Saphira knew of what happened. I know what has transpired with Roran." He told Cambion with anger coloring his voice.

"I am so sorry, Drakefyre. There may be hope for him. It is possible he survived." Cambion lowered his head.

" If half these stories about Morzan are true, there is no hope for that. None at all. I . . . I never said goodbye to him. I was angry with him. I . . . I gave up hope for Garrow . . . And I failed to tell Roran of Garrow's end. Now . . . "

Their chamber doors opened as Arya strode through. She was already dressed for the day- wearing her black cloth tunic with smooth-silk trousers that gave away her thin and athletic curves. Her sword waited on a simple leather belt. Eragon's heart sped up when she gave him a quick glance, remembering the kiss she had given him the day before.

"Eragon. Cambion." She looked towards Orik's bed, to find the Dwarib prince still sleeping.

"He knows. Saphira has told him." Cambion informed as Arya's eyes widened.

" I am sorry, Eragon. Morzan will not be able to . . ." She dropped her gaze from his, voice failing at the last moment. Eragon stepped to her, only for Arya to look up and give him a chilling look that placed a dozen walls between them.

"Get dressed. We are to train today." She said. Turning with grace, she left the room.

Cambion retrieved Eragon's clothing : A sleeveless vest and dark brown leather leggings. Eragon dressed emotionlessly, forcing himself to feel no sorrow, lest the Spirit inside him attempt to find a root to make itself present through him. Still, Arya's strange actions confused him.

_Are women always this confusing? _ He asked Saphira as he pulled his shirt over his body.

_Only the Elf ones. At least she isn't a dragon. If she were, you'd probably be in her belly. _

Eragon smiled at Saphira's jest as he pulled his pants over his legs. As he left the room, Cambion took up step with him.

"I will leave with you, Drakefyre." He said politely. Eragon nodded as they left their shared chambers, finding a waiting Arya with crossed arms, leaning on the opposite wall. She left her stance with a kick, and then began to lead them through the long halls of the palace. They moved through the courtyard as Sealed Elves carried out various functions, the only sound Eragon heard being that of the trickling fountain. The sun rose against a purple sky as they walked through sparsely occupied streets. They moved towards the back borders of Ellesmera, behind the palace. They passed the statue of Aryan, a gigantic figure that forced one to think of the intellect, power, and beauty of the Laen Elves. Eragon saw the familiar hills, the same green trees as they wavered beautifully in the morning breeze.

It was not long before they reached the white pillared building, several young elves entering at the same time. There was a scatter of laughter as one of them whispered something in their distinct tongue, eying Eragon with amusement. If Arya heard, she did not do anything to come to his defense. Cambion simply huddled close to Eragon as they stepped onto the raised white stone of the structure.

"Remember, keep yourself under control." Cambion whispered into Eragon's ear as they walked into the training room. The familiar square match area had been washed from the day before, while elves took up seats around it, crossing their legs on padded cushions. Arya and Cambion found their places on the square, away from most of the students.

"Headmaster, I have first match today, correct?" Eragon asked as he stepped onto the cool stone of the small arena. The elf nodded, not bothering to answer Eragon vocally. A young novice brought a dulled sword to Eragon, who took it readily. He swung the blade as his muscles slowly readied themselves. As a Rider, he had a faster recovery time as opposed to humans.

"Boy," An elf stepped onto the arena as another young child brought him a sword. Eragon knew the elf as Faythil Tenau, a privileged noble, according to Arya. Faythil had defeated Eragon on every occasion they had fought, and due to this the Headmaster continually matched them against each other. Eragon had learned little to nothing in this so called prestigious school; save for getting beaten day after day.

"Let us have a good match, Faythil." Eragon said in goodsport. Faythil chuckled as one of the students rang the match bell. Faythil launched himself at Eragon, sword held behind his back. Eragon stepped backwards as Faythil's open palm struck him in the chest, sending him flying ahead of the elf. Eragon's feet dug at the ground, sliding across the square arena until he steadied himself at the border of it. Already panting, he raised his sword.

"They say you defeated a Shade. I wonder how that is possible." Faythil japed as he renewed his attack. Eragon met him in the middle of the square, blades flashing across each other's bodies. Faythil leapt backwards before turning his retreat into a slashing attempt toward's Eragon's neck. Eragon held up his sword just in time to block the attack. However, the action sent him staggering towards the left. Faythil saw the opening as he swung his sword underneath Eragon's ankle. Eragon nearly fell to the ground, but he caught himself with his hands. Kicking outwards, his foot met Faythil's chin as he vaulted back up to his feet. A murmur of disbelief settled over the young elves.

Eragon bent over to pick up his weapon as Faythil rubbed his jaw. Silent rage took the elf as he jumped to attack Eragon. Eragon's sword _thrummed _as he deflected the blow, sending Faythil's sword to the right. The elf jumped to Eragon's side, attacking from that direction. Eragon spun on his heels, dodging an attack meant for his waist as he struck at Faythil's upper leg. Faythil jumped over the attack, landing on the flat side of Eragon's blade. Eragon grunted in surprise as Faythil pulled him closer by the collar and crashed his head against Eragon's nose.

Stars filled Eragon's line of sight as he stepped backward, blood pouring from his new wound. Faythil sped forward, hurling a closed fist into Eragon's stomach. The Rider cried out aloud as Faythil's hand dug into him, only to bite down on his tongue as a staggering uppercut sent him into the air. Eragon's back slammed against the square floor of the arena. Coughing, blood sputtered from his mouth.

"Weak." Faythil taunted as he approached. Eragon began to raise himself up, only for Faythil's naked foot to send him back to the flat.

"Humans. So weak. You will never amount to anything, boy. Every one of us outclasses you in speed, intellect, and strength. The world was doomed when the last Rider was seen to be a pathetic _son of man." _

"Stop him!" Eragon heard Arya cry, first in Elvish. Faythil flashed her a devilish grin as he struck Eragon across the face with his sword. Despite the dulled edge, Eragon felt blood rise as a welt formed on his cheek. The blow stung as he writhed under Faythil's foot.

"You are weak. Your entire family. Everyone you love. Every _human_ is nothing but _trash."_

_Roran. _

_Garrow. _

_Death. _

"AUGH!" Eragon threw Faythil off of his body. The elf boy landed on his feet, but looked on in surprise, his sword at the ready. Eragon began to laugh manically as he doubled over, his bones cracking and then re-forming. He felt _heat _rise through him, felt his vision become _shared. _

_The Spirit. _

"His hair . . . it's turning red! Cambion!" Arya shouted. Eragon gripped a strand of his hair and looked for himself. The color of it was blood red, the same as Durza's, the shade from what seemed like ages ago.

"So it is, Elf." Eragon answered. A voice lingered behind his own. Faythil began to step off of the square as Eragon's eyes found him.

"No, you don't get away." Eragon hissed. The air shifted, and suddenly Eragon was inches away from Faythil.

_Such speed. It gives me speed greater than an elf's. _

Faythil sheepishly struck Eragon with his sword, only for Eragon to catch the blade with his hand. Muttering words he did not remember learning, the sword bent into itself and clattered onto the floor. Faythil whimpered in fear as he cowered underneath Eragon's baneful gaze.

Eragon grabbed the elf by the hair and hurled him into the ceiling. Faythil's back _cracked _as the stone above splintered around the imprint his body made. Faythil landed onto the flat as the Headmaster rushed at Eragon. Eragon howled with delight as he turned into the elf, screaming as his voice sent the Elfman flying across the room. Cambion came near him then, speaking words of calming.

_No. Not yet. There hasn't been enough blood. _The Spirit said.

_I agree. _Eragon's twisted mind concurred. He felt himself weaken as he rushed towards Cambion, covering the Shade's mouth, preventing his spellwords to reach Eragon's ears. Eragon picked Cambion up and threw him onto the floor, punching him in the stomach as Cambion's back reached the ground. The Shade cried out as Eragon's blow broke already dead bones.

"Eragon, stop this!" Arya shouted. Yellowed eyes frenetically searched for Arya, until he found her.

_Kill her. _The Shade said.

_I can't, I love her. I- _

Arya stood at the entrance of the school, pillars visible from the outside. An arrow sped past her head, and she widened her eyes in surprise as it struck Eragon's heart. Blood bubbled forth from his mouth as Arya screamed. Eragon fell to his knees, catching himself from hitting the ground with shaking hands. Elven arches advanced past Arya, shooting arrow after arrow into his flesh as blood stained the training arena.

_Blood. _

_BLOOD! _

Eragon look up with a twisted smile as he sent tendrils of blood into the chests of the elves that fought him. They screamed in surprise as Eragon rose, steadying himself while the blood he controlled delicately pulled arrows from his skin. Wounded flesh healed over in seconds, open gashes closing in gusts of smoke.

Eragon bounded past Arya, finding more elven troops stationed outside of the marital school. A sword of blood formed in both of his open palms, hardening into sharp blades of iron. He hurled himself into the ranks of the elves, cutting through them with ease. Faythil's words spurred him on as he shouted intelligibly, killing with reckless glee while the sound of his bedlam reached a bloody crescendo. He heard Arya weeping, but his mind was so far gone he didn't care. He could feel The Spirit gradually taking control of his movements as his own thoughts were suppressed. A shadow passed over him, large as it eclipsed the light of the sun.

"Eragon, stand down."

Yellow eyes dipped into black pits of sclera saw a golden dragon hovering above.

"_Rattae Dracana!" _Eragon's shade screamed as it vaulted into the air. The gold dragon turned, massive wings sending gusts of wind to the ground below. Eragon went flying past the dragon, confusion taking the Shade's mind. As he turned, he saw an elf sitting upon the dragon's large back, standing in its saddle.

_ELF!_

"Eyfani Totaran Gesuhul" The spirit taunted as Oromis drew his sword.

"How dare you speak such a foul tongue in this land." Oromis lowered his head.

"Glaedr, land." He ordered as the dragon let itself fall to the ground. Eragon sped after them, flourishing his swords, aiming for the Rider's neck. Oromis caught Eragon's twin swords, grasping the boy's chin as blue eyes locked onto yellow ones, stepped in evil.

"_Be still, spirit!" _Oromis shouted. Eragon gasped as the Spirit within him was sent screeching back into the prison of his mind. The iron blades he held vanished into puddles of blood on Glaedr's back. He felt his hair returning to its normal length as strength fled from his body.

"_Illusio Teftani." _

Eragon's eyes no longer saw Oromis. They no longer saw anything. He was greeted with a black void, and his body felt as if it floated upon nothing.

_Cambion . . . Arya . . . _

White walls appeared as Eragon fell to the ground of the void he was placed in. Oromis stood before him.

"Drakefyre." He said with contempt in his voice.

"Where . . . I'm sorry . . . I didn't-" Eragon felt tears fall down his cheeks as he gripped his sides.

"You are not a fault. I realize this is my own error. My hate for your ilk has caused me to not see the reason in Islanzadi's request. Had I trained you from the beginning, the ones you killed would still be alive." Oromis sounded sad, then.

"I will show you something. Show you the past. Show you your father." Oromis' voice faded into the background as Eragon felt himself wash away. His eyes saw nothing but blackness, until finally he regarded a giant mirror. But he was not in Ellesmera. He did not know where he was. He wore a bloody shirt and pants, and he saw through the mirror he did not carry his own face. He saw a young boy of perhaps ten, with black hair and green eyes. Two beings: One and elf, another a man with blonde locks and bright vermillion pupils flanked him as the mirror was drawn open.

_From the visions of the past, we learn solutions to the future. Watch well, Drakefyre. This is your first lesson. _Oromis' voice boomed within Eragon's mind as he walked forward, inside the skin of a boy he had never seen.


	83. MAP RELEASED

I will be posting today; this is just a quick announcement. I remember WAY back when I told you guys to like my facebook page to get info on this rewrite… I wasn't very clear (No one liked it LOL) so I kinda just kept the map to myself. Well, I JUST added the map to the facebook page (Please, control yourselves.) So if you want to see it, go to facebook and search Tower of Magi and when you find a page with the inheritance rewrite cover for a profile picture, that's it! Like it and comment your thoughts on version one of the map. You can also find the map by clicking on my profile. So I implore you, PLEASE like the page! It will be an easy way for me to talk with everyone who enjoys this rewrite, and I'll also be able to get more information as to how many people enjoy this story. The rewrite is an ongoing struggle, and liking this page will show your support, and it will make me very happy. Also, you get to see your map so its a win-win situation!


	84. Eldest Chapter eighteen

(A/N) Sorry this is coming so late. Also thanks to the ONE person (Lol) who liked the page and the two people who enjoyed the map . . . the reason I made both of those things was for you readers because you expressed interest in it. I guess not . . . anyway, Eldest is actually almost over. A question for you all : Would you rather I focus on the characters and move the big fight into the beginning of brisingr or if I should just make eldest a wee bit longer so everything stays together? Believe it or not Killian's arc will be over within a chapter, and Murtagh's will be done in 3-4. Eragon is close to a finish, and Nasuada's arc with her brother will be coming to a close. Orrin is really our eyes into the war so his arc won't conclude in this book. Also, early spoiler : Golhlobor will be in Eldest. So stay tuned!

- 18-

"He is giving you the entire realm."  
Vermal rubbed his fingers together as he re-read the letter Naise had sent him.

_I did not see the dark woman's betrayal coming . . . humans really are fickle creatures. _

Vermal settled his eyes on the plump-faced Olyvar Dagger, who sat across from him on a red cushion in Vermal's quarters.

"If I become the Varden's new vizier, I will become part of their nation."

"Another Nyste can occupy the position while you do what you need done." Olyvar pursed his lips together as he regarded Vermal with black eyes devoid of pupils.

" This is true. But the only candidate is Nune . . . but his ambition could mean my downfall." Vermal rubbed his chin in reflection.

" But Vizier . . . a position of great power, this is." Vermal mused. Olyvar let out a high-pitched laugh.

"Greed was always a problem for you Nyste. A lust for power. If Nune gets out of hand I will deal with him. Better yet, if the situation in the South Sea grows more dire, Nune can take the fall." Olyvar moved a long sleeve in front of his mouth as he smiled slyly.

_It's true. Many in the family have begun to question my authority as Eoitog. If I name Nune my heir . . . _

Vermal laughed softly as Olyvar rose from his seated position. He wore a sleek black body-suit made of silk, while long sleeves covered his soft hands. He pulled his hood over his head and then rose a scarf from around his neck to cover his mouth.

"If you were not a secondson, I would have killed you already. You're far to crafty, Olyvar."

The secondson assassin let out a muffled giggle.

"Then we should both consider ourselves lucky I was born without family or wealth. So will you accept Orrin's request?"

Vermal nodded slowly.

"Naise was wise enough to hint this to Orrin. She knows that as Vizier I will in effect rule his Kingdom. It will be simple to subvert his authority."

"I heard the Varden has lost the north, however."

Vermal scoffed.

"That is of no matter. As we speak Orrin marches upon the gates of Feinster. He gains the poorly defended South."

"The Forsworn will be a hard enemy, either way." Olyvar warned.

Vermal smiled deeply as his thoughts went to the subject of _It. _

" I have received more letters from the New World. Some rogue pirate has attacked our poor settlers, and it seems an ancient dragon has awoken from our mines. I have given governor Kliss authority to use the weapon. Once he has defeated this Pirate King, he will return to us. With the weapon, the Forsworn will become nothing but an ashen memory."

"Let us drink to the occasion." Olyvar's smile was so wide, it could be seen through the cloth covering his face.

(Line Break)

Murtagh pushed Kinure back, the Forsworn grunting in effort as his small blade flipped about his body. Murtagh leaned backwards as Kinure's sword nipped at his chin, drawing blood while Alauinel hissed with annoyance.

"_You _should have seen that coming. Kinure isn't even trying." Alauinel criticized. Kinure halted his attack as he laughed and gathered his breath, moving a lock of blonde hair out of his eyes while the rest of it cascaded to his ankles. He had a young boyish face, which is not surprising, considering he became a Rider at thirteen.

"I am trying. A _little, _anyway."  
Murtagh smiled as he renewed his assault. Vrael's blade felt strong and heavy within the grip of Evander's gauntlets, the two elven artifacts fueling him with strength. Despite this, Kinure _was_ strong, and Murtagh found himself using up much of his stored magic just to keep up with the Forsworn. They danced on a terrace that jutted from one of the many spires that rose from Uru'baen's castle. The city spanned for miles below them, an organized circumference of buildings that spread outwardly from the center, where the castle was found. Boots tapped onto stone with loud _clicks _as clothing rushed together, whispers in the windy air. Kinure jabbed at Murtagh's head, who barely avoided the blow as his neck bore a long superficial scratch that sent warm blood trickling down his back. He threw his own sword back, and then savagely struck down at Kinure with a heavy-handed overhead strike. Kinure slipped from underneath vrael's blade, rolling behind Murtagh as the Forsworn's hair flew like a cape at his back. Murtagh's sword hit the stone of the terrace, ringing loudly while Murtagh felt Kinure strike for his side. Murtagh let go of his sword, rolling to his right as Kinure's weapon narrowly missed his nose. Kinure gave Murtagh a look of surprise as Murtagh jumped forward on all fours, tackling the Forsworn and disarming him with one twist of the wrist. Kinure's blade went clattering away from them as they writhed on the stone flat.

"Unorthodox. I like that." Alauinel complimented, and Murtagh could picture the comely elf smiling now, those full lips of hers shining. Despite his age, Murtagh knew Alauinel desired him. He had been told by Kinure that Alauinel had lusted after Morzan, and he had been told by numerous people that he looked much like his father. It seemed only natural to him that she would want him in his bed. Despite that attraction; or perhaps _because_ of it, she was a hard teacher, sending him to his chambers with welts and bruises.

"Okay, you win. Get off me." Kinure grunted. Murtagh freed himself from the boyish man and helped Kinure to his feet.

"I wasn't moving as fast as I could have, but maybe I should next time we spar. You've gotten strong fast." Kinure said with a nudge.

"The next time he trains, Murtagh will fight me." Alauinel said as he approached them. She wore a dark brown corset that gathered together her bosom, giving her shapely curves while a purple mantle graced her shoulders. Tight breeches revealed strong legs and hips fit for bearing stronger sons as blue eyes gave Murtagh a sneering glare from slanted eyelids, half hidden behind a veil of blonde hair.

" You? One of the strongest of the Forsworn? I don't think he's ready yet. Maybe he could fight Hossa or Avey.." Kinure began, but halted as Alauinel gave him a sharp glare.

"We will be going to war soon. Once Murtagh's dragon has finished the _turning, _we will join the battle. Morzan returns to us as we speak. He has tamed the North, and House Pike has yielded their lands to us. They have betrayed the usurpers."

Kinure nodded in approval.

"Lord Pike is wise. He would not doom his people to the long sleep for a fickle thing as pride." He commented.

" The Varden will fall," Murtagh said as he looked at his sword. Without uttering any incantations, he lifted the weapon into the air and gently dropped it into his waiting hand. Impressed, Kinure did the same.

" Ah, spellweaving without words. The makings of a _Warlock." _ He gave Murtagh another childish smile.

"I have taught him the art. I am the only witch among us." Alauinel said as she looked at Murtagh thoughtfully.

" Every day I gain new powers, thanks to her teaching." Murtagh nodded his head towards Alauinel.

"Maybe you should take lessons from her, Kinure."

Kinure laughed happily, and even Alauinel smiled. Murtagh allowed himself to grin as well, for the first time truly felling as if he belonged within a group.

_I don't need you, Nasuada. Or the Varden. I have my own people, now. _

"I beg my pardons, but I must seek out Galbatorix." Murtagh informed. Alauinel let him go with a wave, and Murtagh made his way back into the castle. Stairs leading from the terrace twisted downwards, carefully cut stone marking each step as Murtagh descended to the main levels of the citadel. A cool draft traveled with him, pushing his long black hair into his face as he descended.

"She likes you." Kinure said, suddenly right next to Murtagh.

"How did you-" Murtagh began, and Kinure gave him a sheepish smile.

"I'm fast," He shrugged. The pair began walking together.

"How do you feel?" Kinure asked after a long stretch of silence. Murtagh gave him a questioning look.

"About what?" He said with a knitted brow.

"About this war. We're going to be killing soon. I know you spent some time with the Varden . . . you will be felling former comrades." Kinure looked at Murtagh from the corner of his massive blue eyes.

" I will not feel any regret once I face them. They have given me scars that have sealed their fate, just as my blade will seal theirs." Murtagh said. Kinure gave him a worrying look.

" You must be careful, Murtagh. Revenge is what drove your father to madness." Kinure spoke softly, barely above a whisper. Murtagh glared at the Forsworn, lips curled backward.

"What do you know of my father?" Murtagh snapped. Kinure's face softened, as his mind traveled back to a different time.

" Morzan was quiet. Older than me, but quiet. Some darkness always haunted him, but I do not know what. Oromis was chosen to train him, you know. But the elf was a hard teacher. Soon, Morzan grew to hate Oromis as he hung around Caomhim and Galbatorix. That hatred for Oromis soon grew to include all of the Order. Morzan was the first to join Galbatorix after Vrael sentenced Galbatorix to death to appease the Dwarib King. We all followed . . . but Morzan joined Galbatorix out of nothing less than a desire to kill everyone who he believed mistreated him." Kinure explained.

"The problem with that is once all of your enemies are dead, who do you blame? He was upset with himself, guilty more often than not. Then the dreams began. I left before you were born, but I know of what transpired from Galbatorix. If you wish to be a man, Murtagh, if you wish to be a _father, _ you cannot cling to revenge. You fight for just reasons, not for bloodshed. If you fail to do so, you will end up driving everyone that you love away as you descend into a mire of your own agony."

Murtagh was silent as they reached the last step. Kinure went on ahead, opening the door that lead to a wide hallway. He looked back at Murtagh expectantly.

"The throne room is this way, if you have forgotten." He said.

"Go on without me . . . I have a change of plan." Murtagh responded with a small smile. Kinure shrugged and went on, whistling to himself as he did so.

" Nasuada . . . " Murtagh curled his hands into fists.

_I refuse to be the man that Morzan is. But I cannot let go of revenge. I will only let go of my hatred after she is dead. After everyone is dead. _

With a heart corroded with darkness, Murtagh climbed up the stairs again.


	85. eldest Chapter Nineteen

BROM slipped through painted windows as the wind beat against his back. One strong arm gripped layered stone wall while he eased his legs into a long hall as the moon watched behind him. The aura was too familiar.

_Uru'baen. _

The crippled Rider landed on the hard floor, using magic to soften his fall. His broadsword chittered quietly; metal tapping against a wooden sheath. Shaven, light brown hair tipped the top of his eyebrows as his eyes scanned ahead. It was in the deep of night that he came here, after a long journey from the Elflands. Islanzadi's order still rang fresh in his mind as he rose to his full height, sticking to the shadow of the wall as he moved.

_Kill the Suhureliel Omshurtag. _

The castle slept as Brom crept through the fortress. It had grown larger since he had last seen it, several towers now stretching into the bowels of the clouds above.

_What are they building? What is their goal? _

A foul magic rested here. It reeked of dragon souls, the Eldunari. But they were corrupted and unholy, mixed with the imperfection of flesh. The scent seemed to reverberate in his head, a constant pounding that resounded at the bottom of his skull. It was felt and smelled, a strange effect from an even stranger sensation. Brom knew that Galbatorix had kept the Eldunari of their falling teachers and comrades . . . but he never said what he would _do_ with them. Uncertainty greeted Brom as he moved under an arched path, leading to a hall flanked on both sides by stone soldiers holding several different types of weapons. He closed his eyes and sent out his essence, testing the area around him, looking for the familiar touch of Alauinel.

_There. _

Brom found it in a matter of seconds. Her own magic was in a frenetic state, as if she was locked in a duel with some other being. Regardless of that, Brom placed his hand on the hilt of his weapon and turned around, honed in on Alauinel location. Rushing hurriedly through hall after hall, feasting chamber after feasting chamber, Brom grew closer to the touch of Alauinel's power. Curving paths covered with cobbled stone lead him to jagged trails that sounded his every step after he removed his silent-foot wards. He followed a long series of stars, climbing up and up until the magic he felt from Alauinel had reached an-all-time high.

_What in the blazes is she doing? _ Brom reached the top of the stairs, opening another door and rushing down another hall. The walls within this one seemed to curve inwards as he ran towards the last door, the final object that separated him from his quarry. He felt his own power well up within up, a strength that he had not felt since the days when he had been Galbatorix's comrade. Power had returned to him after his short tenure with the Elves, super-human training awakening long forgotten skills. Inches away from the door, Brom pulled his sword from its sheath and slashed it across the door frame as he heard a woman moan.

_Alauinel? _

He stepped into the chamber, hacking away the remaining wood of the door as he saw a man on the bed, his waist covered by blankets while dark hair fell over his face. Underneath him, illuminated by the moon's gaze, was Alauinel. Blue eyes found Brom's, and she smirked at him as she let out another cry of ecstasy.

Scars covered the man's back, wounds that spider-webbed from both of his shoulders all the way down to the sharp bones of his waist. Brom did not have to think long to place the name of this person.

"Murtagh," Brom said as Alauinel let out one last cry, and then gave way to laughter. Murtagh rose his head upwards, allowing his long hair to fall over from his shoulders and down into the middle of his back.

"Caomhim," Murtagh greeted without facing him. Brom stepped backwards, his sword dragging against the coal-black stone of Murtagh's chamber. The boy swung over from his bed, his nakedness somewhat covered by darkness as he walked past Brom, and into his closet.

"You have returned, it seems." Murtagh said conversationally as Brom heard him pull clothing over his body. Brom's eyes settled on Alauinel, who still laid underneath the covers, blue eyes gleaming.

" I have dealings with Alauinel." Brom answered shortly as Murtagh returned to the room. He looked so much like his father: The only difference being his face was rounder and somewhat softer, as opposed to Morzan's more sharp wolfish features. Still, he was not surprised that Alauinel had taken him. She had lusted after Morzan for ages- it was only natural for her to claim his son.

" My dear Caomhim, it has been so long since I have last seen you, and this is how you greet me? You broke down my dear student's door with that large and cumbersome sword of yours. I think he has ill-motives, Murtagh."

Brom scowled deeply as he watched Morzan's son return to the bed-side, pulling a belt and sword from a stone peg on the wall. In the night, the blade shimmered a ghostly white.

_The sword of Vrael. _

"Student?" Brom inquired, confusion causing him to lower his sword.

" Alauinel prepares me for battle, Caomhim. My _Dragon_ will complete his turning tonight, friend of Morzan. Soon, our wrath will stretch across the realm as we reclaim our Kingdom. You have returned, so now you have a choice." Murtagh turned as he belted himself while he pulled elven gauntlets over his stretched out fingers.

_The hands of Evander. _

"I see you have been given your Eldest birthrights." Brom nodded towards Alauinel. " I am not here to join your war. I am here to kill Alauinel. And I am here to warn Galbatorix. Golhlobor stirs. Already he rouses the Sealed Elves."

Alauinel let out a soft and bitter laugh.

" You? Kill me? Even in your prime, you were barely stronger than Morzan, and now he has outclassed us all. I doubt you could harm me, dear Caomhim." Alauinel gave him a beautiful sneer, scrunching her nose as at him as she had done years before, when they were all young in mind and body, training within the red keeps of Doru Araeba.

" Caomhim, you have a chance now to live. I am sure Galbatorix will be thrilled to hear that you have returned. However, my father is coming back as well. He has razed the North, it seems."

_No. The Varden was supposed to hold the North while Orrin advanced onto Uru'baen . . . _

Alauinel seemed to see his facial expression drop, and she let out another sweet-sounding giggle.

"You have grown _soft, _Caomhim. You support the Varden? After all the Langfelds did to us? Did to Galbatorix? Do you still believe him to be your friend?" Alauinel's face darkened as her voice grew louder.

" I . . . I do. But we must _unite, _ not fight one another. Golhlobor rises-"

"We know about Golhlobor, Caomhim." Alauinel said almost comfortingly as she rose from underneath her covers. Pale breasts bounced as she jumped from her bed, kissing Murtagh before walking up to Brom.

"Golhlobor holds dominion over the dead, it seems. And as a Valbhorethlian, my blood holds dominion over his prison. It was a simple thing . . . pricking my skin and then using my life-force to weaken the seals that contain him. Just a little . . . so as to not incite the attention of my mother or father . . . while he still lived. It was much harder to transmute a decoy seal and then place it back within the tombs of Aryan. But getting the Sealed Elves to plot a rebellion? That was simple. Though I wonder how many they have killed in the darkness before finally showing themselves . . . how many mud-bloods does it take to equal one ounce of Valbhorethlian blood?" Alauinel shrugged as she leaned forward and kissed Brom on the cheek. She then moved past him, gathering her own clothes.

" Why . . . why would you bring him back?!" Brom shouted as Murtagh looked past him, no doubt regarding Alauinel lustfully as she dressed.

"There is someone Galbatorix wishes to reunite with." Alauinel said simply. Brom turned to face her, and saw that she was now covered by a dark robe that concealed the upper portion of her face. Pale skin still gleamed in the darkness, while pretty full lips were turned upwards in a beautiful smile.

" Oh, Caomhim, don't look at me like that! You know how much Galbatorix loved her . . . "

" You did not do this for him. You have ulterior motives, Alauinel. Golhlobor may bring back Alyenne, but at what cost? He will destroy everything, and leave nothing behind but a world of ash." Alauinel strode to the foot of the bed and sat down.

"And why do you think that would bother me? I destroyed half of my country, dear Caomhim. But I want more. I _crave _more. The screams of children, the cries of women as they are raped and then killed . . . the bellows of men as they attempt to avenge their lost loves. That is what drives me, Caomhim. Golhlobor can give me that release. He is the god of death, and I am anything if not a death-addicted sadist."

Brom felt anger rise from within him as he pointed his sword at her chin. She looked at it dully, and then lifted her neck, pushing it against the sharpness of his blade.

" You always loved this world. What is there to love, I wonder? It is so boring, Caomhim. At least humans _die. _But us Elves? We can live for thousands of years. You have experienced a taste of this, being over one hundred years old. But what is that? You are nothing but a child in my eyes. Life . . . it drives you mad until you cannot do anything except kill everyone and everything." Alauinel lowered her head, and her eyes glowed as she stared at him.

"Does Galbatorix know of this?" Brom asked as a thin line of blood trailed from Alauinel's neck and down into her bosom.

" He knows that Golhlobor will bring back Alyenne."

" So you only told him half of the truth." Brom spat.

"And you're surprised?" She retorted, lifting her head once more.

"I cannot read your thoughts. It seems you may have become wiser, then. Murtagh, at this point Caomhim's intentions are clear. I have already sealed this part of the castle- no sound will be heard from beyond the walls of these quarters. Fight Caomhim to the brink of death. I believe that even Galbatorix would be incensed if I kill his little pet . . . but I have other uses for him; a spell that Morzan deigned to teach me, of all things."

Murtagh was at Brom's throat in less than a second. Brom leaned his head backward as Murtagh's sword waved across his face. Turning on his heels, he raced for the hall. He would have more room to fight. Murtagh followed, naked feet slapping against the floor. Brom swung himself around, arching his blade for Murtagh's shoulder. The boy caught the attack at the middle of his own sword, pushing Brom backwards as he laughed softly. He charged with a renewed attack, his sword creating sparks as it slid across the floor. They exchanged blows in a beastly dance, Brom barely able to keep up with Murtagh as his one-arm tired. The boy constantly fought on Brom's armless side, forcing him to over-extend his defense.

_I cannot beat him with the blade alone. _

Brom roared as he savagely slashed upwards as Murtagh jumped in the air to land an overhead blow. The boy grunted as their weapons slammed into another, forcing him flying backwards, landing on the ground and sliding near the frame of his ruined door. Alauinel, who had risen from the bed to watch the fight, looked down at him with contempt.

"Do better, you fool." She hissed as Murtagh rose to his feet. His chest rose as heavy breaths rattled his body.

_He may be strong, but he is untrained. I need to defeat him so I can kill Alauinel . . . She is the true threat, even greater than Galbatorix or any of the Forsworn. To have planned this so far back . . . Her father still lived when she weakened and replaced the seal. She must have done this right when Alyenne had died. _

Murtagh advanced on Brom, sword raised over his head as his mouth was curled in a concentrated grimace. Brom dropped his blade and stretched his hand outwards, causing a loud boom to rattle the hall as Murtagh again went crashing backwards. Alauinel sighed as she stepped over Murtagh, who rolled over in pain.

"I should have known you would be too much for him. He is strong . . . but he requires more training." Alauinel explained. Sweat beaded at Brom's brow as he narrowed his eyes.

" You're a bad teacher, Alauinel. A selfish bitch that would doom the entire world on the whim of your demented desires." Brom held his hand out in defense as Alauinel raised her own.

"I am a _Witch, _Caomhim. All Riders are taught the magic of Mages and Wizards . . . but witchcraft? No, that is taboo. Witchcraft and Warlocking are both schools of magic that are much stronger than the incantation bound spells you can spittle out. Allow me to demonstrate."

Alauinel screamed as a ghastly wraith came flying from her mouth, yellow eyes burning as the ghost raised a sickle for Brom's head. He ducked as it passed over him. Whirling around, the creature howled as Brom called his sword back into his grip. The magic properties of his weapon cut through the apparition as it prepared another blow, causing it to vanish in a plume of smoke. He turned his head to see a ball of fire racing towards him. Falling to the ground, he struck his hand to the floor as the heat of the attack reached his fingertips.

"_Earthae stenr risa!" _ A wall of stone came shuddering before him, and he winced as the fire slammed against the stone protection. He rose to his feet while his magical barrier crumbled in an half-ashen heap. He saw Alauinel's sneering grin as Murtagh loomed behind her.

" You're growing weak, Caomhim. And I have just begun." She flicked her finger towards him as a spear of electricity exploded into life at the center of the hall. In seconds, it had struck him. Caomhim screamed as the energy coursed through his body, tearing his cells apart and numbing his muscles. He fell over as snakes of electric current buzzed around him. His vision faded as he licked his lips, shuddering with pain. He heard Alauinel's steps as she walked towards him, speaking words in a tongue he did not understand. It sounded Elvish . . . but there was something else to it. An agelessness that made Brom weary. The words seemed to carry might within every syllable.

"I wonder what your _true _name, is Caomhim. Let us see if Morzan's research in the ancient language can truly bind one to my whim."


	86. Eldest Chapter 20

(A/N) Okay, it's totally crazy that in eight days we already got 3,000 views. But I have some not really bad news but news that might be annoying to you all. *Sigh*

I KNOW we're coming to a head in Eldest, and I KNOW the conclusion is riding up on everyone. All the characters are being set into place for a finale that is better than the one everyone loved in Eragon. BUT I have been neglecting my other stories. Game of thrones, Twilight, and star wars. Each of those stories have small followings, and those people have faithfully never unfollowed and I really owe it to them to continue the series I have started in regards to them. I have been making the chapters in the Eldest rewrite longer, but . . . I fear I may only be able to update once a week in order for me to have time to work on the other projects. I have purposely created a very complex plot with numerous strings, alliances, and planned betrayals, so the longer chapters will be able to flesh that out more. But I won't be able to focus on anyone's favorite . . . Today is an Eragon chapter, but I won't be able to do everyone's favorites due to the fact that the story MUST go on. At this point I'm sure everyone is aware that the big battle is going to be within the Elf lands, while Feinster is going to be another big one (YES, I KNOW don't correct me, look if you glance at the original map even, it doesn't make strategic sense to attack that settlement so late . . . anyway . . .) Thorn's "Human" form will soon be revealed, and in that train of thought I have a question. WOULD ANYONE who can draw be interested in doing some character illustrations? You can contact me and have my email/and or skype info so I can describe to you what everyone looks like. I'd really love to use a really dark picture of Morzan for Brisingr's cover, but it'd be great to have some characters drawn so I can post them on the facebook Tower of Magi page, so everyone can see how the rewrite characters look (I know my handsome Durza has a few fans) Anyway, thanks in advance.

( The events in this chapter chronologically happen after the last Eragon chapter. In simpler terms, this happened before Brom finished his travels to Uru'baen.)

As the glass windows parted, Eragon realized that they were in fact dual _doors. _The elf named Oromis placed a rough hand on the shoulder of the body he wore, pushing him forward as the wetness of his stained shirt was accented by a cool breeze. He was greeted by a small round chamber, with seated beings belonging to the different races of the world. At the forefront of them, however, was a long-faced elf with high cheekbones and blazing red hair. Stern but kind green eyes widened as they caught sight of the boy Eragon dwelt inside of.

"Its name is Morzan, from the human city of Uru'baen." Oromis lifted his hand from the boy's shoulder. Within his own mind, Eragon was amazed.

_Morzan . . . the one who destroyed the North. He is a Forsworn. _

Oromis' voice sounded within the echoing abyss that Eragon himself resided in, Oromis' illusion broken by Eragon's thought.

_Before he was a Forsworn, he was a small and scared boy. _

Eragon passed disembodied eyes across the black expanse.

_How can you do this? _

_Illusion magic of the strongest sort. I am feeding my own memories into you. What's more, I have placed you within the vantage point of Morzan. I can do this with any memory I have with the boy, as I was around him often. _

The image of the round chambers returned as the human named Galbatorix stepped forward.

" High Lord Rider Vrael, this boy was driven out by his father before he arrived. His father attempted to kill him. They succeeded in killing his mother."

Vrael put a hand to his chin as his eyes narrowed in thought.

"Why would a father attempt to kill his own son, and a wife besides?" He asked. Eragon felt the illusion-Oromis glare at Morzan's back.

"Because Lord Vrael . . . this boy is a Ceryani." Oromis spat. The room fell silent then as the lofty Riders exchanged glances. Outside of the room's windows, Eragon saw a vast red metropolis, with dragons filling the sky like birds. Ranging from small to gargantuan, they were astride magnificent Riders, no doubt carrying out tasks within the city or preparing to go on a mission somewhere in the mainland.

" The Ceryani were wiped out thousands of years ago. Back when the Talin Clan still ruled over the Laen Elves and her distant kin." Another Elf with dark brown hair folded hands below his chin as blue eyes looked past Morzan, into Oromis' eyes.

" It seems the boy's mother was a direct descendant of a Ceryani. We were allowed to read some of her research . . . she planned to resurrect her people. She . . . used alchemy to . . ." Galbatorix trailed off as the Riders listened to him. Oromis, however, had no qualms in speaking.

" This Morzan is a product of alchemic incest. His mother created him from her own flesh, using transmutation to give herself the necessary means. His mother's _mother_ produced her same way; a flawed descent but full-blooded Ceryani besides. She had planned to create a sister for Morzan to procreate with, before her death."

"Transmutation . . . a witch's craft . . . makes Morzan a witched son." The blue-eyed elf gave Morzan a look that even made Eragon shudder.

"The Ceryani themselves were no different from humans. But the higher beings of their race . . . the Mergoi . . . dangerous beings that can mold magic to their whim. Neigh-godlike power. It would often take dozens of well-trained Elves to defeat one Mergoi." The elf finished as he folded his legs and settled into his seat.

"I believe this boy to not only be a Ceryani, but a Mergoi. He should be killed." Oromis said matter-of-factly. Galbatorix turned around and pointed a hand at Oromis, his face contorted in a scowl.

"You cannot kill him. He is innocent. Just a child." Galbatorix turned his head towards Vrael.

" To kill this boy would be to spit on the creed of our order. His death would be the end of our wisdom. Rayun'haurtubbi may have stepped down as Lord Rider . . . but even he would be incensed at this."

Oromis gave Galbatorix a pitiful grin.

"And what are you to assume how he would feel? A short-lived human compared to one of the oldest beings in this world. He himself has seen the destruction a Mergoi can wreak. To train him in our ways of magic and then give him the chance to hatch a dragon . . . it is madness."

" He is dangerous, Galbatorix. There may be some wisdom in Oromis' words." Vrael nodded towards Morzan.

" Even if we let him go, he could become a threat . . . even without formal training. "

Galbatorix lowered his head as he narrowed green eyes into angry slits.

" I swear to you . . . if you harm this child the wroth of the all the human kingdoms would fall upon Doru Araeba."

Oromis chuckled, stepping from behind Morzan.

"I would welcome that. I've always wanted to ki-" Before Oromis finished his sentence, Vrael stood from his seat. He was tall and lithe, with smooth skin that betrayed his true age.

"Enough . . . both of you. You have been rivals ever since you arrived. I had hoped that putting you in culling missions would damper that . . . but I see it has done nothing but increase your hatred." Vrael said softly.

" However . . . there is truth in Galbatorix's words. To kill a young boy who has done no crime is not justice. And the human lands would rally against us. Human Riders would be forced to choose their race and their Order . . . I fear that many of them would make the wrong choice. And Oromis, you must get over your hatred of humans. Due to this, you will be the one to train Morzan."

The illusion ended as Oromis raised his voice in outrage. Eragon fell into a green field, soft grass absorbing his fall. It was bright, but above a starry black sky loomed while small trees waved gently in a soft breeze.

"Drakefyre," Oromis called as Eragon rose to his feet. Ahead of him, Oromis sat at a table, where food and drink was prepared. Eragon steadily walked towards the white oval furnishing, while Oromis poured himself and Eragon a sweet-smelling tea, and then dropped two honey-leaves into the clear cups.

Eragon sat down as he eyed the table. Sweetmeats were spread between him and Oromis : Honeyed cakes sweetened with berries, soft flat breads dipped in butter and then covered by a deep red strawberry paste, rolls of bread dappled with sugar and glazed with white frosting. Eragon gathered up as much food as he could fit onto his small plate, and Oromis smiled thinly as he watched him.

"I see you share my appetite for sweet-tasting food." Oromis took a sip of his tea, and then retrieved a roll. He bit at the side of it delicately, a small mouth barely taking more than a morsel out of the side of the desert.

Eragon nodded as he stuffed his face, glazing staining his cheeks.

" For an illusion, this is pretty good." Eragon spoke with particles flying out of his mouth. Oromis gave him another thin grin, and continued.

"As you can see, my hatred for you humans was something ingrained into me. My father despised your people. It is because of that my brother Evander set out to prove him wrong about your race. After he died . . . I blamed your kind. But in a way, it is my fault that the war began." Oromis took another polite drink of his tea, and then put his cup down softly on the table. Eragon raised his own, which was now empty, and Oromis gave him an annoyed glance as he refilled Eragon's cup with the honeyed tea.

" I was hard on Morzan. The boy tried his best to please me, but it was not enough. In my own anger, I gave him tasks that should have been impossible . . . spells that no youth should learn. In the end he bested me; as he was able to complete all of his training. I taught him out of spite, but in my own arrogance I gave a capable boy more power than he had use for. I gave him knowledge that he was not yet ready to learn. In the end, I simply abandoned him after three years of brutal lessons. Naturally, the boy went to Galbatorix, who was waiting in the wings. Vrael ignored my disobedience, believing that Galbatorix would be a better teacher for the boy while I went to train my own niece, a girl I will not name."

Eragon furrowed his brows.

"Arya?" He asked. Oromis shook his head sadly.

"No, not her. But that is not important right now, Eragon."

Oromis sighed deeply, folding his hands into one another.

" Morzan left me bitter and misguided. At that time, Galbatorix had already grown somewhat disillusioned with the order. Along with Caomhim, the three of them secretly shared their anger towards Vrael and the other Riders. Vrael . . . he was not brave as Rayun'haurtubbi was. He pleased those who were in power. He favored Elves over humans. And he paved the way for Morzan to convince Galbatorix to rebel."

Eragon assumed from what Brom had told him previously that Galbatorix had started the rebellion. Confused, he leaned in closer to the table.

"Brom- er, Caomhim taught me that Galbatorix rebelled due to the death of his lover, Alyenne."

" He is not wrong. But the night before they flew out to destroy the dwarven overland keeps of Farthen Dur, I heard Morzan and Galbatorix scheming with their dragons. They had not been pleased with Vrael's allowance of Alyenne's death, and were incensed at the mention of a proxy living out Jaystark's sentence, the Dwarib who killed Alyenne. They spoke within the old towers of Doru Araeba, and I heard them, Eragon. Unbeknownst to Galbatorix and Morzan, I often went to the old towers to study. I sat below them in the darkness as they cursed the Order."

Eragon sat back from the table, folding his arms.

" Why didn't you stop them?" He asked.

" Because I wanted them to die. I hoped they went after Jaystark, so Vrael would be forced to punish them. They returned victorious, and Vrael called for their execution at the urging of the Dwarib King. However . . . the rest you know, I'm sure. Galbatorix and Morzan formed the Forsworn, and laid waste to the realm. In the last battle for Doru Araeba, I would have died had it not been for Glaedr. Morzan fought me, former master against his student. But at that moment, Morzan eclipsed me. Right now, Morzan is most likely stronger than even Galbatorix."

The fact that Roran had fought Morzan brought a small sense of pride to Eragon's heart.

_You died facing a man that not even Oromis could defeat. Your death will not be in vain . . . _

" I chose to train you because when you were possessed by your Spirit, I knew I would be waiting for the same thing that has happened to Morzan to occur with you. I . . . I still struggle with my feelings toward humans, but I will not allow my personal racisms to affect the realm, as it had before. If I simply had spoken to Galbatorix and Morzan . . . I may have been able to convince them of their folly. I may even have been able to defeat them. But now my brother is dead, due to my own evils."

" I still do not understand why you are telling me this, Oromis." Eragon said after a long stint of silence.

" You and Morzan have more in common than you might think, Drakefyre." Oromis locked eyes with Eragon then.

"I am nothing like that monster. He killed thousands of people . . . killed my brother!" Eragon rose from the table, nearly flipping it over. Oromis held the perimeter of the table as it wobbled.

"These things are true. But you both wrought destruction due to my own grievances. And you both wield great power. You are at the point where Morzan was, over a hundred years ago. A crossroads. You could become a great hero or a blight upon the world, Eragon. The choice is yours. As it was your father's."

Eragon stepped backwards as he felt his throat close.

"Father . . .?"

"Morzan is the one who birthed you. I told you before you were a Ceryani. But you possess the blood of a Mergoi, a trait gleaned from your father. Great power resides within you due to this."

" Morzan . . . if he is my father . . . he killed Roran! And . . . how do you know? How do you know for sure?" Eragon hissed.

" You have his blood, the same blood I sensed when your father was just a boy. Eragon placed his hands on his head as he paced back and forth.

" But . . . Garrow found me and Roran in the woods . . . he raised us like his own sons . . ."

" I do not know the circumstances, but I do know that Morzan is your true Father."

Eragon screamed, filling the illusion world with anguish and sorrow.

(line break)

Roran gasped as he opened his eyes to the night. Cool air passed over his skin, which he could tell had freed from his armor.

_Katrina. _

He began to rise, but he found he was strapped to a wooden table, metal bars crossing over his body.

"Hello?" He called.

_I should be dead. _

" I would not move, Hagganthil."

Roran's eyes adjusted as he realized a window separated him from the skies above. A door opened, and a man walked into his prison. Dark black hair fell over a pale and sharp face, while green eyes regarded Roran with interest.

"Hagganthil . . . Morzan? Morzan!" Roran beat against his holdings as he tried to attack the man. Morzan simply watched, pity in his eyes as Roran writhed underneath iron bindings.

" With those strange tattoos, it was hard to operate on you. They seem to reject the touch of magic. However, they weaken with the loss of your blood. I constantly had to dance you between life and death in order to use my magic to bind your wounds. I only was able to heal the serious injuries. Your other wounds will have to heal themselves naturally." Morzan said as he ran a hand through Roran's hair.

"My son. I thought I had lost you . . . You look more like her, you know. More like Selena." Morzan said softly as he pulled his hand from Roran's head and crossed it with another behind his back.

"Hagganthil is your birth name, Roran Magebane. The name I gave you. Your mother and I."

Roran could see it now.

_That's why he looks so much like Eragon. _

" I believe you . . . my brother, Eragon, has your features. His hair is lighter and his eyes are not green, but he has the sharpness of your face, as if it was cast from stone."

"So all three of my sons live." Morzan said silently. Roran raised his head from the wood binding.

" Three? There is another?"

" Yes. You will meet him soon. Your eldest brother. His is two years your senior."

Roran's eyes darkened.

"What makes you think I'm going anywhere with you?"

Morzan rotated, a pale hand gleaming in the light of the moon.

" I had to wait until you were awake, Hagganthil. You see . . . I know how to find ones true name. Through this, I will return you to how you were supposed to be. You . . . you do not possess magic, but that power of yours to negate magical properties will be useful in this war. You will help me find Eragon."

" You cannot do whatever you are planning. As you said, my tattoos were gifted to me so I would be able to stop the touch of magic. Your spells will not work."

Morzan smiled quickly, a smile so much like Eragon's.

" I do not know who gave these markings to you, but they are Ceryani in design. What's more, the power I use goes beyond magic. It is creation itself. The ancient language is not bound by the rules of spellworking. No ward can stop this, unless it is written in the same ancient tongue, which it isn't."

Morzan placed his hand on Roran's head as he began to speak.

"Welcome home."


	87. Eldest Chapter 21

(A/N) SO we broke 40,000 yesterday. It's going to suck starting over in terms of views when Brisingr begins . . . so if you're following this story MAKE sure you get to the next part! Also, I'm going to be making a new (better) website. I am also going through Primary Bloodline again, because it needed some major editing. So when I re-release it, the book (which will still be free on the new site) will have a better cover, a codex, and a bunch of other things. ANDD if you haven't already, "like" Tower of magi (me) on facebook so I can talk directly to you about the rewrite project! (And if you want to see the map). Also, to a question Restrained Freedom asked . . . Yes there are rivers, but due to the nature of the neigh-impossible interface of Cartographer, it is hard to do. Once I get better at using it I shall add rivers/lakes.

The New World was vast.

Killian looked ahead at a large expansive jungle, birds chirping while fire crackled behind him. His men moved up slowly, causing long blades of grass that were nestled between black dirt and twisting roots to whisper as they brushed against clothing. Rem stood beside him, bearing his strange new body, one vermillion eye underneath a flap of red hair while one yellow eye was focused ahead. His one white arm rose to move a lock of hair away from his pupil, turning to Killian in the process.

" The Dwarib colonists flee deeper into their fortified towns. They are hiding something." Rem lowered his head as they passed underneath a large and weeping tree, vines sagging nearly to the floor of the jungle. Bugs filled the air between every man, while a thick heat clung to their damp clothing. Food had been difficult to find- many of Killian's men had died from eating poisonous foods. Hunting was dangerous. Every kill they made attracted a host of violent animals, of which Killian had never seen. Wolves the size of horses, gigantic lions with curving tusks, and wheezing basilisks that could change the color of their mottled skin in order to blend into the environment. Due to this, Killian's force was dehydrated, hungry, and tired.

Killian did not know if he himself could survive another battle.

The Dwarib forces attacked in the dead of night. They used weapons that Killian had never seen: staffs that fired exploding arrows that scared Killian's men and punctured the heaviest of armors. Above, what appeared to be floating sacks rained streams of fire from turrets onto the ground below, burning the forest and all that were within it. The only reason they had survived at all was due to Rem. The creature (Killian had long since refused to call Rem a boy) was able to summon the half-dead dragon that he had absorbed on the beachhead. The otherworldly beast made quick work of the Dwarib and their strange technology, but Killian wondered how long that would last. The Dwarib here were obviously regrouping for some final confrontation, some last attack that Killian was not sure he would survive.

The man trudged forward, his ultimate goal bellowing within his mind.

_I will kill Galbatorix. _

_(__**Line break) **_

Nasuadon lifted a hooded head in the rain. Behind him Nasuada lagged, her boots sticking into the deep muddy roads of the Empire. Occasionally a merchant or a group of soldiers would plod by, metal hooves sending muck flying into the air as the torrent of rain descended upon them. The sky above was a disgusting slop of gray, while black clouds formed in the far distance. It was cold, and every time the wind blew Nasuadon shivered as the clothing he wore had long since begun to stick to him like an additional layer of skin.

"Sister, we must hurry," Nasuadon said as he fell back, taking Nasuada's arm and helping her to continue. Her face was gaunt and her hair was in disarray, slanted eyes shut in a grimace as she held her bulging stomach. Every step seemed to be akin to a mile for her, and her eyes bore large black circles that added to her haggard appearance. Nasaudon stomped ahead, spying a man on the side of the road, fixing with a large wheel that had slightly fallen off of his carriage.

"Wait here, Nasuada." Nasuadon squeezed Nasuada's shoulders, and walked towards the hunched over man. He wore a halfcape that began with a hood, covering his upper back while rain drenched his lower quarters. Mud stained his breeches as hands fumbled with locking mechanisms. Bored horses stamped idly as the world wept around them.

"Sir," Nasuadon began behind the man. The carriage driver seemed not to notice, swearing to himself as he attempted to fix his wheel. Nasuadon walked around the man, his boots filling with water and mud with every step. He knelt down and to the man's surprise, helped him attach his wheel to the frame of the carriage.

"Thank you, thank you . . . who are you?" The man questioned. Nasuadon smiled warmly.

"My name is Jex and my sister, the woman behind me, is named Haura. We lost our horses to raiders. How far away are we from Uru'baen?" Nasuadon asked. The man's face gave a sympathetic look.

"I hear you. This war has got everyone on edge. The armies that were defeated up North fled here, killing and pillaging. And now they say that the westerlands will be the home of the conflict. The young Langfeld King rises from the South, if merchants can be believed. These are dark days, indeed." The man gave Nasuadon a hand.

"My name is Freklyn March. We're going to be passing by Greypoole, but after that it is a straight shot to the capital. You're in luck; I'm going there to talk to Galbatorix. He spends all day on that throne of his, listening to the problems of the common people and meets out justice as he sees fit. A good man. Kind." Freklyn rose to his feet with a grunt, pulling his hood over his face as a fresh blast of rain was buffed by a howling gust of wind.

"We'll stay off of the center of the road, I'm sure we won't get stuck again. Get your sister so we can all stay out of this damnable weather."

Nasuadon collected Nasauada, assisting her as she entered the carriage. The man seemed to be a merchant himself, the back of his carriage filled with various foodstuffs, covered by a leather tarp. Nasuadon and Freklyn sat outside of the carriage on a raised seat, a leaning cover protecting them from most of the rain. Nasuadon watched as the heads of the two horses bobbed below him, while Freklyn whipped the reigns, controlling his steeds as he navigated the muddy roads.

"Everyone is fleeing to Uru'baen as of late. The city is certainly big enough to house the entire realm. War has everyone on edge. They all remember the tales their great grandfathers passed down, speaking of the Rebellion. Stories of how the North fell in rebellion reached down here as well. They say Gil'ead is nothing but a pile of ash, now. Those who don't bend the knee get their head chopped right off. Uru'baen is far away from the frontlines . . . for now." Freklyn shook his reigns again.

"For now?" Nasuadon asked, holding his arms in an attempt to keep warm.

"The rebel King has captured Aroughs. Feinster is next. If This King captures Feinster, this war will become real."

"What do you mean?" Nasuadon raised an eyebrow.

"Aroughs was a small city. Forty blind Urgals riding donkeys could have captured it. But Feinster is fortified. Lady Lorana controls the city, Head of House Lorana. She's a capable woman . . . very smart with a military sensibility about her. She keeps Feinster very defendable. If Orrin defeats her . . . Galbatorix will know he has a real war on his hands."

" War is a tragedy, no matter what side you bow down to." Nasuadon looked behind him to check on Nasuada. Her head rested on the side of the carriage, sleeping after days of travel on foot.

"I can agree to that. Hopefully Orrin is defeated at Feinster. If he is, the war will be a faraway trouble."

Greypoole came upon them suddenly, hidden in the fog caused by the pouring rain. The small township bore wavering flags of the Empire, an orb of fire with three pronged tongues licking at the air above. Wooden watchtowers were built into an oak palisade, and archers wearing green cloaks stared down at them as Freklyn approached the large doors that blockaded the road.

"Greypoole is a town and a checkpoint. There's no way around it, unless you want to travel off-road. Those men," Freklyn pointed to the archers.

"Greencloaks. If you try to navigate around Greypoole, they will get you if the bandits don't rob and kill you first."

They were called to a halt as a man wearing a boiled leather vest and a dark green cowl approached, flanked by two armed men. Their steps slushed against murky mud, puddles made from numerous other travelers overflowing with rainwater.

" Good morning," the man greeted. He had a friendly face, and he smiled warmly.

"Hello. I have the proper papers, sir." Freklyn reached into his pack, and produced a roll of parchment. Waving free of excess water, he handed it to the gateguard. The man inspected for a moment, smiled, and then waved them ahead.

"It is a little excessive, but it keeps us safe." Freklyn said as he urged his horses forward. The town of Greypoole came and went- a meager collection of weather worn houses bearing little to no importance was all that was seen of the town. In a short while, Greypoole was behind them.

_Your destiny is coming, Murtagh. Uru'baen approaches. _Nasuadon squeezed his hands into fists, and frowned deeply.


	88. Eldest 22

(A/N) I SAID I WAS POSTING ONE CHAPTER PER WEEK! But I lied. I figure why not just focus on Eldest and finish it and then do the other stuff. SOOOOOOOOOO YEAH. There will be character portraits coming soon, so like Tower of Magi on facebook!

(This chapter chronologically takes place after the last Eragon chapter, but then goes ahead to the current time)

"Morzan is my father."

Eragon sat on the smooth grass of Oromis' illusion world, grasping the strands of vegetation between his hands. In the distance a fake sun was apparent in the black sky full of stars, cloudless and vast. Eragon felt as if he could fly into the space above, uninhibited by the forces that kept him on the ground.

" The sins of Morzan are not yours, Eragon. Though many might believe so. It would be prudent of you to keep this information to yourself." Oromis cautioned. He stood some feet ahead of Eragon, his black-accented blonde hair waving softly against a pale cheek.

Eragon looked at Oromis as the elf half-turned to face him. A bright blue eye regarded Eragon through a veil of sun-touched locks, glowing magnificently.

"Arya already knows, doesn't she? You told her and the queen." Eragon looked down to his hands as they groped at the ground, pulling up shoots of grass.

" Yes, they are aware. I had to explain my initial outburst towards you, Eragon. Whatever feelings you may harbor towards me must be directed towards your training. We haven't much time, boy."

Oromis approached Eragon, standing above him as Eragon looked up at the frowning elf.

" We will train here. Glaedr has already gotten in contact with Saphira on the outside."

"What of my friends?" Eragon asked. Oromis offered Eragon a hand, and he took it willingly as he was pulled to his feet.

"They are safe. Your Shade killed many of my kin . . . and numerous elves call for justice. But they will have to understand that the crimes do not belong to you. But we cannot focus on that now. You need to be ready for war." Oromis stepped backwards, opening the palm of his hand. Slowly, an orb of clear glass formed from a liquid-like substance, turning and turning until a perfect circle was formed. Within the object, images began to shudder into life.

" The outside world weeps." Oromis said morbidly as Eragon's eyes widened.

Thousands of Sealed Elves marched across burning and cut down forest. They carried strange weapons- horned bows and swords that were curved and serrated. Bright blonde hair, almost white, graced their heads as they ran, trailing behind their black faces like wraiths. Between them were the Ra'zac. Eragon could almost smell the reek of them as they limped along, ragged black cloaks half-hiding their grotesque appearance. Werewolves and beaked monstrosities, half decayed with burning eyes. But there was more. Above, winged beasts howled, webbed wings slapping against the air. They looked like featherless vultures: long hooked beaks with large beady eyes. Sealed Elves rode upon them like mounts, but Eragon could tell that the winged creatures were nearly as intelligent and dangerous as the ones who straddled their necks.

"The Summer Fertility will begin two days hence. That will give us some time to prepare . . . but now you know what afflicts us, Eragon. Galbatorix is a faraway trouble for now. If these Sealed Elves succeed in resurrecting Golhlobor . . . all will be lost. The death of your brother will have been in vain." Oromis closed his hand into a fist, and the scrying ball vanished between his fingers. Eragon allowed his eyes to drift to the skies above, an amused grin on his face.

"How the hell did I get involved in all of this? The world is filled with so much strife, and I just now have realized it. I wonder . . . I wonder how I could have lived before, ignorant to all that is going on around me." Eragon directed his gaze to Oromis.

"Have you ever felt this way?" He asked. Oromis walked ahead of Eragon, and then motioned the boy to move with him. As they walked, Oromis began speaking.

" I have. I realize now that as Riders, our duty is to defend the people who know nothing of Golhlobor, people who only care that their children reach adulthood, and that they have a good harvest that will sustain their family. Long ago we had forgotten that truth, and I believe that is part of the reason why Galbatorix and Morzan rebelled."

Eragon watched his feet move through the grass.

_My father is Morzan. _

"What was Morzan like? Truly?" Eragon's voice lightened with the question, almost sounding like a child.

" As a boy, he was quiet. But he was nice as well. A polite child. When he was under my watch, he tried his hardest to learn everything I taught him. The boy bested me at every corner . . . Like I said, in the end Morzan grew even more powerful than I. But before he was Morzan the Black Flame, he was Morzan the boy. I regret the way I treated him in his youth. If I had gotten over my racisms, no doubt your father would be a different man. Distant still, but kind."

Eragon gave Oromis a cynical smile.

" It is unlike an Elf to admit your failings." Eragon followed Oromis across the vast green valley, tall stalks that ended with brilliant pink flowers brushing past his thighs. Oromis moved slightly ahead of him, his eyes focused on something in the distance. Soon, Eragon saw it as well: It was an oval structure that was completely black in color, with two elvish statutes standing watch at either side. Despite its color it seemed to glow magnificently, while the starry sky shone behind it.

"I belong to a proud race, it is true." Oromis said finally as they approached the strange monument,

"Fair skinned with unbeatable beauty and hair touched by the sun itself . . . The Laen Elves are the physical embodiments of arrogance. But despite all of our wisdom, we still failed. Our lands are racially divided. The former princess of the thorn throne is a member of the Forsworn. Our mighty king died in battle against his own daughter. Our own sordid history is filled to the brim with foolish foibles that are the result of our perfections, Eragon. That is why . . . I plan to make up for my own past. Training you is a start. If the others can see how I treat you, a human with Ceryani blood, then perhaps they themselves will change. If we are not untied against Golhlobor, we will surely fall."

That statement sobered Eragon. He saw Saphira then, and Arya. He saw Prince Orik and Elonubum, he saw Roran and Garrow . . . he saw the deaths he had witnessed, he saw the ones he had given out. He then saw the darkness that threatened the world; the evil presence that would soon reveal itself.

" Your training begins now, Eragon."

Oromis stood before the black structure. Now that he was closer, Eragon could see that there was a door at the front of it, dusky silver in color. Light seemed to be absorbed into it, and the door glowed dimly with ethereal power.

"What is it? What is in there?"

"In Doru Araeba, before one learned to fly their dragon, they were first taught to learn about themselves. This structure is called a _Reaping Cell. _Within it, students were forced to come to terms with their inner demons. For you, this will be a literal struggle."

_The Shade. _

Eragon swallowed heavily, and stepped forward. The door opened with a metallic creasing sound, a deep iron-laced tone that was similar to the noise that is heard when one removes a heavy tomb door to enter a long-forgotten crypt.

"Eragon, be careful. If you fail, I will be forced to kill you. I have been able to suppress the Shade by sheer willpower on my own part, but within the Reaping Cell, you will be entering the world that your own mind inhabits. A literal living consciousness. You will see things that occurred around you, things that you may not remember."

Eragon nodded heavily, and stepped into the Reaping Cell.

He felt air rush over his body, parting his hair and causing his bangs to beat against his forehead. Raising an arm defensively, he attempted to move forward as light blinded him. He turned around to see Oromis standing in the grassy field, light closing in around the Elf. Oromis nodded as he vanished in the sea of light, causing Eragon to swear underneath his breath as he turned his head forward once more.

The brightness subsided, and Eragon walked ahead. Around him, the landscape was entirely white. His boots clacked against the ground, causing a sound to echo throughout the strange world he was within.

_This is my consciousness? It's so empty . . . I would like to think I'm smarter than that. _

Eragon grinned dumbly as he brought hands up to the corner of his mouth.

"HELLO!" He cried, his own voice answering him as it faded away in repetitive rhythm before finally falling silent.

_Nothingness. _

Eragon continued to walk about aimlessly, eyes darting this way and that. Finally, he heard a noise.

_A voice. _

It sounded like a man. But then there were other sounds as well, shouting screams and vile curses.

_Voices. _

He followed them, running towards the direction of the clamor until he saw two figures astride gigantic dragons as they flew about above. One dragon was completely black, with layered horns that spread backward from a snake-like face. The other dragon was a bright azure color, similar in appearance to Saphira.

"Caomhim! I trusted you! You were my brother!" The black rider screamed as his dragon clawed the Caomhim's mount across the neck. Blood fell and splattered onto the white floor.

_Brom. _

The black Rider jumped from the ebony dragon and onto the dying blue-colored wyvern.

_He named his dragon Saphira as well. He had said Saphira was the name of a dragon of great legend, but I see now that was a half-truth. Saphira was his dragon, not some faraway and ancient creature. That is why he looked at my Saphira with such love and interest . . . _

The black Rider landed on Saphira's back, hair billowing behind him like a dark-colored cape. Eragon could see now that there was a woman with Brom, carrying what seemed like two babes. With a scream, the black Rider slid his blade between the woman's breasts. She slid from the saddle of the dying dragon, falling as the two babies screamed in fear. Brom hurled himself from his saddle and muttered some spell, causing the two babes to vanish. He turned into a blast of lighting sent by the black Rider. With that, the wraiths vanished.

"Caomhim . . . who was he fighting? Who was the woman?" Eragon asked himself as he walked towards the puddle of blood from Saphira. Kneeling, he looked down into it. His eyes widened as he saw a young Garrow marching through the woods. Eragon heard soft sobs coming from the pool, and leaned in closer to find the two children that Caomhim had teleported. Garrow went over to the brush where they were hidden, looking up and calling out to the empty wood.

He got no answer as tears welled in Eragon's eyes. Carefully, Garrow gathered up the babies, and with that the blood puddle drew into itself and was sucked into the white ground.

_Brom saved me. All those years ago . . . He saved me. Which means the dark Rider was Morzan. And the woman . . . _

"Was your mother."

Eragon looked up to see Durza standing before him.

_No . . . not Durza . . . _

_Me._

Eragon saw himself with fully red hair that reached the bottom of his lower thighs, and unnaturally green eyes flecked with yellow eyed him with humor. A sneering mouth was contorted in a look of contemptuous humor, while pale arms crossed before a thin chest. Shade Eragon wore black breeches with high purple boots, while his torso was adorned with a leather jerkin over a long-sleeved shirt the color of midnight. On his back, he carried a long and thin blade, serrated and evil by design alone.

"You," Eragon started, his eyes narrowing as he rose. The Shade nodded almost cheerfully.

"Yes, me. The one that gave you power to destroy those Elves."

"I didn't want to kill them." Eragon shot back harshly. The Shade raised its hands in defense.

"But you did, didn't you? Otherwise it would not have been so easy for me to take control. You enjoyed killing them, Eragon. You enjoyed the strength you had. You were weak before, and you are weak now. That elf boy was not far off. I wonder how many times Roran has turned in his fiery grave, cursing you for your failures. _Oh, Eragon, how could you? You left me to die . . . Your weakness is what killed me." _

"Shut up!" Eragon shouted as he rushed towards the Shade. The Spirit smiled as it ducked underneath Eragon's punch, and then delivered a low kick that sent Eragon flying backward. He landed hard on the ground, and he bit down on his tongue, drawing blood.

The Shade approached, drawing his blade as he walked forward.

" You will never be able to protect them. Arya . . . your other friends. They will all die. Either by Galbatorix's hand or Golhlobor's. Or perhaps . . . even your father. He'll kill you just as he killed _your mother." _

Eragon snarled and rose to his feet, throwing his arms out towards the Shade. With both palms flat against the air, he roared.

"BRISINGR!"

Blue flame exploded from his hand, the force of the attack causing him to stagger backward. The Shade vanished in a bright maw of fire, resplendent against the bleached background. When Eragon blinked, The Spirit was inches away from him. Sharp cutting pain flared across his chest as the Spirit's sword slashed across, red hair flying across the Spirit's green eyes as he attacked. Eragon gasped while blood dribbled onto the ground. Falling over, he felt his head tighten.

"Weak, Eragon. That is what you are. A pathetic creature, not deserving of life."

Eragon jumped from the ground and ran at the Spirit on all fours. He opened his hand, and by no thought of his own, a blade of iron blood hardened in his grip. He vaulted himself in the air and brought his sword down onto the Spirit. The Shade's knees buckled under the force of Eragon's attack, and the white ground cracked, spider-webbing across the vast expanse. Eragon summersaulted from his first strike, landing on the ground. With a frenzied snarl he sent a tendril of blood snaking towards the Shade's feet. His opponent stabbed his sword at the blood tentacle, causing it to liquidize and fall to the floor. Eragon let out a ferocious yawp as he felt his hair lengthen, while his eyes began to darken around the edges.

"Despite all of this, you're still nothing but a weak fool!" The Spirit mocked, causing Eragon to rush at him. He moved so fast that he seemed to vanish in thin air, before reappearing before the Spirit.

His movement breaking the sound barrier, Eragon caused the white walls to shatter, revealing dark depths of nothingness. Eragon grabbed the Spirit's throat, tightening his hands around a pale neck as it laughed . . .

_No. _

The Shade's bones began to crack.

_Stop. _

Eragon could feel it taking over his own body.

"_NO!" _ The shade in his grip vanished as he pulled within himself. He could feel it fight against him, could feel the Shade panic.

"_You need me! You need my power! If you remove me from your body, you will die as well!" _

"I know." Eragon said harshly as his hair regressed, red highlights turning _blue. _

The Shade was halfway out of his body, a writhing black mist that curled in Eragon's hands.

"You tried to take me over my using my anger. I know now . . . that anger will be the death of me. This must be the lesson I had to learn about myself. To control the rage that I have inside. Roran and Garrow are dead, and there is nothing I can to about that. More than anything, my lesson was to _let go." _

A bright blade of energy sparked to life in Eragon's hands. He plunged it into the black mist, causing the Shade to release a screeching hiss until finally it dissipated in the wind as the white drew away, revealing the same valley Eragon had been in with Oromis. The Elf himself stood before him, a small smile on his face.

"You did it, Eragon. Your first task is complete."

(linebreak)

"F-Father . . . "

Morzan allowed his gaze to turn to the man who had once been Roran. He was Hagganthil now, his mind filled with created memories implanted by the ancient language.

"Yes, Hagganthil?" Morzan turned his head towards the light-brown haired man. Morzan had shaved the horrid beard off of Hagganthil's face, revealing a strong and square jaw that favored Selena's side of the family. Hagganthil himself looked little like Morzan, but from the texture of his hair and the shape of his eyes Morzan could see the resemblance between them. They were astride horses, at the front of a small party that was returning to Uru'baen.

The North had fallen.

House Pike pledged loyalty to the Empire once more, and gave up Rebel loyalists. Morzan personally executed them himself, burning them to death with his fire. All that remained now were the rebel houses to the South and South East, and the Dwarib factions. Morzan mused that the Elves would put up the most resistance, but that made no difference. They would all fall.

But before that, he had to find Rahadon, or as Roran had once called him: Eragon."

"I do not understand why we return to Uru'baen. Should we not press our assault against the Elves?" Hagganthil asked. Morzan smiled at that. He had kept portions of Roran's mind intact, most importantly his military sense. He allowed Hagganthil to remember the woman he had known as Katrina and their unknown child . . . but he saw them as rebels, now.

"I agree. But I have been summoned to return before I take further action. I believe Galbatorix plans to join the war, soon. The Forsworn will fly again."

"I cannot wait to see the full extent of your power, father." Hagganthil lowered his head and smiled.

_Once I find Rahadon, I will turn him as well. The visions I saw of my death by the hands of my sons . . . They will not come true if they are all bound to my will. _

The Imperial party went ahead, making their way for Uru'baen to prepare for the conclusion of what may be the last war that ever graces this strange and cruel land.


	89. Eldest Chapter 23

(A/N Due to the fact that the Langfeld's have Elf descent, people have asked if Orrin is an elf. He has elf blood, but it is diluted. AT this point, he is essentially human.)

The two armies stood across from one another atop of a grassy field. Impori flags whipped in the air, causing Elva's long hair to curl about her neck. Beside her, Solembum's ears twitched as his black nose sniffed, the hairs of his neck rising while a long and thick tail dashed about. The human king Orrin was seated upon a large wooden throne being carried by four sturdy youths, all of them blonde of hair with blue eyes that rivaled the skies above. His queen was carried similarly, her lower face covered by a Dwarib-veil. Behind them, a portion of the Varden's army was at the ready. Hundreds of horses stamped heavy hooves while spearmen banged their weapons against large shields. Clamor was at an all-time high as Orrin's men shouted his praises, while their young King simply watched. However, the Impori remained silent. They had always been a silent people, and now was no exception. The wood-wearing men of the forest were stoic, all of them waiting for the call of Angela, if need be. Their leader was dressed in a flowing linen robe, as white as her skin while a crown of golden hair was braided above her forehead. An ashwood staff was held in her slender fingers, the head of which was adorned with an ebony scrying ball, the mists within it constantly turning and rubbing against the glass. Solembum's panther ears twitched forward.

"It begins," He said with a heavy growl. Elva leaned forward, her hand going to the quiver of arrows she carried on her slender back.

"It is not customary for a rather large army to go marching into un-allied territory." Orrin called from his lifted throne. Elva saw that the young men that carried him were slick with sweat, struggling to keep their lord above their heads.

"Our calls of audience have gone unnoticed. I wish to speak with you, King Orrin." Angela lifted her staff towards the man. Almost immediately, Elva could feel more than a dozen spells of warding form about the King.

_So he has his own mages . . . _

"I mean you no harm." Angela stated neutrally.

"Every precaution has to be cared for. We live in dangerous times." Orrin retorted. The two rulers looked at each other over what seemed to be the space between two different worlds, two different ways of life. Long ago the Impori fled the Langfelds when they conquered the West, choosing to live in the large wooded areas rather than under the heel of their Half-Elven conquerors. Now, Angela planned to ally with them.

"I have brought food and water. Supplies that you will need, surely. I have chosen to take a side in this war, King Orrin." Angela said softly as their army parted, men leading oxen-driven carts filled with various foodstuffs to Orrin's side of the field.

"A show of good will. I appreciate this, Angela of the Impori. However, the mages of my Varden forces state you are something detestable. A witch, if I am not mistaken."

Elva bore a small smile at that. Mages hated witches for no other reason than that a witch could control power a mage only dreamt of. Elva did not doubt that she could defeat any mage twice her age that lurked behind Orrin's shadow.

" This is true, Orrin. But you will find my _witches; plural_, not singular, mind you, will be a grand assist to your forces. You plan to attack Feinster, which would give you access to the Elf-lands by the south. Well, I tell you this: A forsworn has been sent out to defend the city. Avela Massieo and his dragon, Absolearet. They will destroy your army as it stands now if you do not accept my help."

There was an audible murmur among Orrin's ranks while the young King stirred in his seat. Placing a hand underneath his chin, he leaned forward.

"How have you come to know this?" Orrin questioned.

"I am a Witch, Orrin. My magic is dictated by emotion, not remembered incantations or scrolls. With this power, I can see any development I wish, as long as it is within my power. I have seen Avela flying towards Feinster. Galbatorix fears your army, but if you lose this battle, the war is lost. However, if you take Feinster you will have time to regroup, and no doubt rally some flagging Houses back to your cause."

" I have lost the North to a Forsworn already, and that one did not fight with a dragon." Orrin began.

_Morzan of the black dread. _Elva thought, knowing his name due to Angela herself speaking of him. Out of all the Forsworn, Angela seemed to have a connection with the dark-haired man. She could see it in the way she spoke of him, see it in how her eyes seemed to lighten whenever his name was mentioned. Elva wondered what that connection could be.

"My army has dwindled. We lost fifteen thousand at Farthen Dur, and another ten thousand as the Elves returned to their home to fight the Sealed Rebellion. I have regained some strength due to the actions of Vermal Nyste, who has taken the position of Vizier and brought a merchant army force of seven thousand souls. However . . . you are right. If Feinster is not won, my army will starve. If it is not won, I will be killed and my cause forgotten. I agree, then. We shall join forces."

It was on that day Elva saw the destruction that would befall them. It would be quick and swift, but it would cripple them almost beyond repair. She saw herself in the center of it, saw herself. Elva could not determine what it was, and she saw the vision for what seemed like less than a second yet longer than a century. She shivered, not knowing that it was on this day her destiny began to unravel.


	90. Eldest Chapter 24

A/N: OKAY GUYS I AM SORRY. This is the longest I've gone without an update. Here's why!

I have a few projects going on. I may have a comic book up and running soon.

I've been working on A WIKI for this rewrite. That being said, if there are any non-native English speakers that want to help me just let me know (A lot of people read this fanfiction in Germany, France, Portugal and there is even a small Chinese minority)

I've been stuck on how to get to the end. I've gone through many interpretations but I haven't been satisfied with them. I want to give you guys the very best.

That being said, I just want to get Eldest DONE lol. We're so close and I picked a horrible time to take hiatus. Although I am SO happy no one unliked or unfavorited. That being said . . . once Eldest is done I'm going to need time to work on the wiki. I believe the Wiki will attract new readers, and it will let people refresh themselves for brisingr. I feel like I have very special project, and I'm not giving up on this, I just had to take a small break lol.

ELDEST * CHAPTER * 2 4

Nasuada felt her stomach tremble. To her left and right, massive iron walls stood, with gigantic cathedral-like windows that were interposed between the metal at regular intervals, leading to Galbatorix's throne room. Beside her, Nasuadon stood, his face grim. He was betraying everyone he loved, Orrin foremost among them, all due to her. All because of Murtagh. But where else could they go? If the Varden found out she carried a son who had Morzan for a grandsire . . . She could not let herself think of that thought. It was here that she felt like she could feel the world change, as if she stood on shifting tectonic plates that constantly maneuvered beneath her small feet. They had gained an audience with the King after waiting for nearly two weeks, and now at the worst time she felt her weakest. Two guards stood at the colossal twin doors, the only thing separating them from Galbatorix. Nasuadon stepped forward finally, and Nasuada followed in his wake. Each step placed another brick forming the tomb that would forever bind herself in darkness. She knew that if they spared her, Murtagh would force her to feel the same pain that which was put upon him. She cursed them then: the Elves, the Varden, and most of all herself. Why didn't she speak on his behalf? She couldn't save him from death. Only the traitorous Twins had been able to do that. She was powerless, a woman trapped in the foibles and wars of men. She longed for the carefree life she had as a child, back when her father was alive . . . .

"Nasuada."

Nasuadon's voice broke her daydream of the halcyon, before the war that gripped the realm in bloodshed.

She then realized that Nasuadon had walked far ahead of her, nearly to the doors themselves. She gathered her dirty dress around her and walked forward with suppressed fear and a hint of feeble dignity. Nasuadon's dark skin gleamed in the glare of the midday sun, discolored by the hues of cool blues and reds that painted the window he stood under. Finally she joined with him, and together they walked forward as the iron doors were pulled open. A long maroon carpet lead to a raised stand, where Galbatorix himself sat. Nasuada was surprised to see a man who looked to be in his early thirties, with a kind face and pale skin. He had green eyes and wavy blonde locks, while a bright crown rested on his head.

"My Grace, I present to you Jex and Haruna from the Southlands." A shrill namesayer stood at the foot of the throne, wearing bright green garments that made him look almost comical.

"Welcome to Uru'baen. I assume you speak Ulnar." Galbatorix began. Nasuada was silent as she swallowed her heart. Her brother spoke for her.

"Yes, Your Grace." He said plainly. Nasuada could see silvery droplets of sweat on his muscular arms and back.

"What is it you have come for? I attempt to make time for all beings, even those far away from the capital." Galbatorix stated kindly.

"Your Grace . . . we have been dishonest with you. Our names are not Jex and Haruna." Nasuadon began.

"Nasuada."

_Murtagh. _

Nasuada's eyes saw him then. But then her face turned when she saw _two _of him. But then she realized Murtagh walked with his father. The Forsworn _Morzan. _They came from behind the Throne, each one bearing long black locks and bright green eyes. Murtagh's face was rounder than Morzan's, but they both were almost mirror images of each other. Murtagh wore a black doublet over a gray tunic, with ebony jerkins and high boots fringed with metal locks around the mouth of them. A long sword hung at his waist, and around his neck two gauntlets hung from a chained necklace. Morzan was dressed in battle array- dark-colored armor contrasting with his white skin while a cape as black as his hair wavered behind his stride.

"Nasuada of the Varden?" Galbatorix said with a raised eyebrow. Murtagh approached Galbatorix's side, his eyes glaring.

"Yes. The one that disowned me. The one that had me scoured and left me at the mercy of Orrin." Murtagh spat. Galbatorix's eyes rested on Nasuada, the kindness in them all but evaporated.

"Why should I not kill you now? The audacity of you to come here . . . ."

Nasuadon was the one who answered him.

"My sister carries the son of Murtagh. We had nowhere else to go." Nasuadon spoke. Beneath his strong voice, however, Nasuada heard his speech tremble. Even he was afraid.

The Throne room was silent for what seemed like ages. All three of the men simply regarded Nasuada and her brother, their faces unreadable. Galbatorix lowered his head torwards Murtagh.

"This is your decision." He said silently. Murtagh, as if he had been waiting for Galbatorix to grant him that honor, made his way towards Nasuada. He bore a cynical grin, handsome and evil at equal intervals. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, walking with the same cocksureness that had enraged Orrin in what seemed like a millennia ago.

"You say you carry my child." Murtagh said as he stood a few mere feet away from her. Nasuada simply looked at him with wide eyes.

"Do you believe her, Murtagh?" Galbatorix called from his throne. Murtagh responded, but kept his eyes locked on Nasuada's.

"Yes. She was still a maiden when we took each other." He reached out with his hand as he walked closer to Nasuada. She was still as he got closer to her, and shivered when he ran a hand down the side of her cheek.

"A son." He smiled then, and Nasuada let herself calm.

_Perhaps the child will still his rage. Perhaps he will forgive me . . . _

Blood splattered against the floor as Nasuada blinked in disbelief. Murtagh's sword was unsheathed, a terrible weapon of white malice. Nasuadon gasped as blood seeped from the wound that gashed from his shoulder to the edge of his waist. Murtagh then spun and impaled Nasuadon from behind, the sword jutting from Nasuadon's abdomen. Nasuada's brother let out a feeble cry as blood poured from him, while Nasuada screamed. She attempted to move towards her brother; to help him, to curse Murtagh, but her feet were locked in place. Murtagh spun from Nasuadon's body, his sword leaving her brother as he fell to the ground.

"I cannot kill you, and I cannot harm you as long as you carry our son. But once he is born . . . I promise you, you will die." Murtagh's voice seemed to be drowned out from the sound of her own gasps of horror, tears streaming down her face while the blood of her beloved brother dripped onto the stone, the curved blade that he held shining with red.

(line break)

Aerion had almost forgotten he was in Du Weldenvarden. The place was eerily peaceful, and the war seemed far away. However, he knew that battle would soon take place here, and across the land, at the faraway fortress of Feinster. He stood atop the battlements of fort Kel'am. With him were Arya, Orik, and Cambion, who had taken a new Elven body at the behest of Arya herself. They watched as Orik's personal army of Dwarfbane warriors marched, nearly three thousand strong.

"Prince Orik, you never cease to amaze me." Arya said with a slight smile. Orik returned the grin as he folded muscular arms over his chest.

"The Sealed Elves will stand no chance against these warriors. They are the best in the realm."

Cambion stood by Aerion, his eyes counting every dwarf that passed underneath them. They made a loud sound that echoed through the forest, the heavy armor they wore clinking with every shift of weight. They each carried greatswords half the size of them, and a massive shield on their backs besides. They were, in truth, banes of life.

"This will not be enough." Cambion said softly, so only Aerion could hear. Aerion turned his head towards the Shade.

"Surely this army, combined with the Eragon and Oromis once they return will be able to defeat The Sealed . . . "

"It is not them I speak of. Golhlobor has nearly awoken. I hear the woe of the world, Aerion. The pain of the trees. The cries of the wind. The mutterings of a thousand rivers gone mad. The animals leave this place, because like all natural things, they sense what will befall here. Absolute destruction. "

Aerion was silent. He allowed his eyes to pass over the towering trees that surrounded Kel'am, and for the first time noticed the lack of birds.

_No wonder it is so silent . . . _

"But there must be some hope? Surely Golhlobor will not win." Aerion said, reassuring himself.

"When a rabbit comes across a hunter, does the creature entertain the thought of victory? No, Aerion. It flees. If you humans and Elves were wise, you would do the same. But it would be futile. As long as life persists, Golhlobor will destroy it. He is the god of destruction. There will be nothing left, except the ashes of a world that foolishly tried to defeat him."

To Aerion, the soldiers that funneled into Du Weldenvarden suddenly seemed useless. With a grim smile, he closed his eyes.

"Cambion, is there any way to destroy a God?" He asked. The Shade's answer echoed in his mind as they rode their way back to Gillendel.

_No. It would be better for you to take your life now, rather than face the fury that Golhlobor has saved for you. _


	91. Eldest Chapter 25

Eldest Chapter 25

Eragon trained for what seemed like months. Under the watchful eye of Oromis, he felt his powers grow. His mind was filled with tales of ancient heroes, secrets and horrors that gripped the world years long since passed. He was taught new spells, powerful and dangerous words that could end lives of men with little more than a whisper. The Spirit inside him, now tamed, allowed Eragon to control blood, and while Oromis could not perform bloodmagic, he was knowledgeable in that regard. Every waking moment Eragon learned from Oromis- when he was not being taught the different schools of magic, he was taught how to use the blade in battle. When those lessons finished, he was then instructed in the tongue of the Laen Elves. It was then, after rigorous trials, Oromis deemed Eragon ready. The boy stood on the edge of a grassy plain, the starry sky above him glowing with an unnatural aura. Oromis' illusion world had been home to him for ages. But as Oromis had explained earlier, time passed slower in this realm. When he returned to the outside world, he mused that no more than three weeks had passed. And now, that moment had come.

Eragon wore new clothing. A dark blue sash crossed his chest, an ebony tunic underneath it. At his waist, a cape was tied, the deep blue cloth trailing the length of his similarly colored greaves. Heavy gloves covered his arm to the elbow, and his now-long hair was tied into a ponytail that reached the middle of his back, revealing the full profile of his eagle-like features. A closely trimmed beard hugged his pointed chin, and light brown pupils shined in the glow of the artificial stars above.

"Are you ready?" Oromis asked. Eragon turned his head slightly and glanced at the Elf. He _was _ready. He would see Saphira again- and his friends. He missed Prince Orik's songs; he yearned for Cambion's long suffering smiles, Elonubum's antics, and Aerion's deep laughter. But most of all he missed Arya. The day that the two of them spent underneath the flower tree is what fueled him during his training. He remembered the softness of her lips, the slight impression of her breasts as she pressed against him. The smell of her alone tantalized him . . . but would they accept him back? Or would they see him as a monster? Eragon had conquered the Spirit, but Oromis said it could return.

_Negative emotion fuels it, Eragon. Control your anger, and you will control it. But if you let hatred through . . . . . it will be able to corrupt your soul once more. And if that occurs, the possession will be absolute. _

Eragon swallowed hard, moving roguish bangs that refused to join his ponytail away from brown eyes.

"Let's return to Gillendel." Eragon affirmed, and Oromis lifted his hand as a swirling ball of light formed before them. It widened with a low groan, growing larger and larger as the whine increased in pitch to an eerie scream. The light expanded even further, Oromis stepped forward and then looking back at Eragon.

"Let's go." He said simply, and entered the light. Eragon hesitated for a moment, gathered his resolve, and followed Oromis into the strange formation as his skin tingled, the feeling akin to ants running over his flesh. He felt a _whoosh _of air, and then inhaled deeply as his nostrils were filled with the sweet and almost alien smells of Gillendel. He opened his eyes slowly, and he saw Arya smiling back at him. Surprised, he stepped backward, tumbling over a root and falling on the trunk of a tree. Blushing, he looked about him. They _were_ in Ellesmera, but they were not within the cityscape of Gillendel. Rather, they were out in a remote forest with ancient trees, meaning that they were beyond the statue of Aryan, where the landscape was allowed to grow free, without Elven intervention. Roots snaked all about them, while a screen of bright green leaves formed a massive wall on all sides. Waving gently in the breeze, the leaves reminded Eragon of rippling water. But that was all. There were no birds . . . no other small forest animals. Squirrels did not jump tree to tree, and even the bugs that would normally buzz about Eragon's ears were silent. There was nothing . . . no life save for the heartbeats of their own bodies.

"Arya. I'm surprised you found us here." Oromis started while Eragon rose to his feet. Arya wore a white robe that wrapped around her chest, leaving her right shoulder bare. The robe continued all the way to the middle of her legs, and on her small feet leather sandals were tied. The black-and-blonde hair of House Valbhorethlian was let down proudly, framing her square face as sharply slanted eyes with a green color that rivaled that of the leaves beside her.

"I sensed your magic, uncle. I was nearby." She answered shortly as Oromis gave her a quizzical glance.

"_Nearby? _ The only thing close to here is-"

"The tombs of _Dorethelyam_." 

Oromis frowned. "I see you have been doing your research. Most call that place the tombs of Aryan." Eragon glanced between the two Elves. In all of his teaching, Oromis had never spoken of tombs. Arya noticed Eragon's confusion, her mouth turning downwards.

"I see Oromis has not informed you of Dorethelyam." She said curtly.

"I had been planning on showing them to him now. That is why we are here." Oromis said, nodding towards Eragon.

"I visited the tombs because of the Shade Cambion. He says that Golhlobor has already awoken. According to the ancient texts, he should not be _complete . . . _ but the fact that a portion of his form has been able to materialize . . . "

Oromis shook his head quickly. "What you speak of is impossible. The seals that lie in Dorethelyam contain his prison. Only the blood of a Valbhorethlian could undo it. The Sealed Elves have been using the blood of Laen Elves, humans, and Xoshans to weaken the seal in their black flames . . . but even then, it would take oceans of blood to even begin to damage it."

Arya's eyes looked hollow as she spoke.

"That is what I went to investigate. The seal . . . is no longer. A fake one stood in its place, identical to the original. But when I attempted to strengthen the seal, it crumbled into a pile of dust. It was the work of transmutation."

Oromis was silent for a long while. He walked away from them, placing his hand on a nearby tree trunk as he stared off into nothingness. Arya simply watched him silently, while Eragon tried to get a sense of what was going on. If this Golhlobor was free, did that mean all was lost? He was then aware of the absence of birds and other creatures. What other reason would they have to flee, if not Golhlobor?

"It was the _Suhureliel Omshurtag_. Your older sister. She is the only one capable of such a feat. She must have used some of her own blood to weaken the seal . . . and then give it to the Sealed Elves. Then she replaced it with her magic. But why . . .?" Oromis turned to face them, his eyes narrowed to slits.

"Why would she betray all life to Golhlobor? She is . . . she is truly mad." Oromis said with a hint of sadness. Suddenly, Oromis' face hardened as he looked back up at Eragon, and then Arya.

"You two must return to Gillendel. The Spring Fertility lasts only for one more week. After that, the Sealed Elf offensive will begin. We must be ready to meet them on the field of battle." Oromis ordered. Arya looked at Eragon from the corner of her eye.

"Is he prepared for war?" She asked. Eragon grinned at her as he flexed his fingers.

"_Tainyu oro basolen Arya. (_You'll have trouble keeping up, Arya.)" Eragon responded, in perfect Elvish. A small smile touched her lips.

"Perhaps you are not so useless after all."

On foot, they left the thick forests that bordered the tombs. Eragon wanted to see them, but they could waste no time. As they walked, Arya informed him of the current situation.

"Cambion required a new body after your rampage. One of the Elves you killed was not maimed too badly . . ."

Eragon felt sick as he remembered his killing spree.

"Your people . . ." He started.

"They want justice. But they also realize that it was not you who killed their kin. However, they will be wary of you."

Eragon shook his head, forcing the images of violence out of his mind.

"What of Brom? Have you heard of him? Has he returned?" He questioned. Arya looked away from him as wind whispered between them, causing her hair to cross her face.

"No, we have not."

_Brom . . . please be alive. _Eragon prayed to himself.

"Glaedr should finish his training with Saphira. Once the two of you are reunited, Oromis will surely teach you how to ride." Arya said, changing the subject.

"Is she large enough now?" Eragon felt his heart beat with excitement. He had been longing the day when he could take to the skies with Saphira.

"I believe so. But it will be Oromis' decision. With the Spring Fertility nearly at a close-"

"What is that?" Eragon interrupted.

"What is what?" Arya gave Eragon an annoyed expression.

"Spring Fertility . . . I keep hearing that."

"It is the time period for Elves to copulate. During the Spring is the only time a child can be conceived." Eragon blushed as Arya gave him a quizzical look.

"It is perfectly normal. Are you so juvenile that you cannot handle such a subject?" She gave him a frown. Eragon placed a hand on his head, rubbing fingers through his hair as he shrugged.

"Well . . . I . . . " He began, and nearly jumped when Arya began laughing.

"I am being playful, Eragon Drakefyre." She smiled warmly at him as they paused underneath the towering statue of Aryan.

"I like it when you say my full name." Eragon said softly as Arya placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you scared, Eragon? Scared of what the future will bring?" She looked into his eyes, deeper than anyone has before.

Eragon remembered the kiss they had shared- the awkward but beautiful seconds of perfect pairing between them. He felt his face grow hot, and despite himself he took her hand into his own.

"I am. But we cannot be afraid. There is only one option before us . . . and that is to go forward. No fear can stop us, Arya. If it does . . . the world is lost." She looked at him for a long while, her mouth crooked in a half-smile. Silence passed in the space that took up residence betwixt the two. Arya drew Eragon closer to her, Arya's face inches away from his own.

" We are both afraid. I fear my sister, Eragon. I fear the for my people . . . and I fear for you." Arya looked away from him for a moment, her eyes on the white alabaster skyline of Gillendel in the distance.

"For some time . . . I tried to reject you, Eragon. I don't understand why I feel the way I do . . . Frankly I do not want to. You're a human . . . and a child besides . . . but as I grew to know you I . . . " Arya fell silent then, tears welling up in her eyes.

"You have no idea how difficult this is. My feelings for you . . . they go against every fiber of my mind and body. But there is no one else I would rather be with . . . _ Ey elska tuos." _ Eragon held Arya fully now, holding her in his arms.

"I love you too, Arya Valbhorethlian." Eragon felt Arya pull him to the ground, felt the soft grass as it brushed against his skin. Her head was resting in a bed of jade. Her hair splayed against it like the feathers of a peacock, spreading in a large circle around her face. She pulled his head down to hers, and kissed Eragon with a panic lust. Breathing deeply he broke away as she began to unclothe him.

"Arya . . . " He began, but she shook her head and scowled at him.

"This is our only chance. In a few days, we could all be dead. I _want you_, Eragon."

She dragged his head back to hers, sliding a small mouth in tandem with Eragon's.

On the high hill of Aryan, Eragon and Arya conceived a child.


	92. Eldest: The final Chapter

(A/N): So you're probably wondering why this chapter took so long. Well, I'll tell you. This is the last chapter of Eldest.

"But wait!" You say with a heavy frown as you slam a fist down onto the keyboard. "How can this be the last chapter? What happens to Murtagh? Nasuada? Lorgainne and Katrina? What about the siege of feinster? Does Killian ever return from the new world? And for the love of all that is good and holy, WHAT HAPPENED WITH ARYA AND ERAGON?"

Relax, ok? This is the last chapter because I don't want the chapter count to be over one hundred. This chapter will be super SUPER long so all of the loose ends that need to be tied will be. Then, after this, BRISINGR! But after a three week hiatus. What I really want to do is expand on the wiki and everything, so if you need a refresher you don't need to go searching through the fanfiction posts. Also, Brisingr will have titled chapters. Eldest has been a blast, and I cannot believe that I already finished the second rewrite project. I'm going to be really sad once it finally ends . . . but until then, I hope everyone has enjoyed this. With 48.5k views, it is SO awesome to almost be at half of 100,000 views. Tell your friends about the rewrite, and once the wiki is finished, send that to them too! Any fan of Eragon will be interested in this. So without further ado, here is the last chapter of Eldest.

(the chapters will be cut in two xD, and posted a few days apart so each one can get some views. So yeah. Okay don't be mad this one is super long as it is.)

ELDEST: THE FINAL CHAPTER PART I

SAPHIRA flexed her newly feathered wings against the might of the wind. After a short struggle, the leathery skin that was found underneath the blanket of azure feather caught on the current of air, allowing her to glide effortlessly above the ground, resting on the air itself. She turned her long snout sideways and eyed the ground below.

_This is the farthest I have ever flown. _She thought to herself. Saphira was above Ellesmera, the Laen Elf section of Du Weldenvarden. In the time that Eragon has been training, she too, had been taken under the literal wing of Glaedr. He was an old dragon, much older than Saphira herself, and his size boasted of that fact. As she flew, she could easily picture the golden mammoth, a dragon that rivaled mountains. Every time Saphira was with Glaedr, she was unable to fathom his vastness. He was of the same rare sort of dragon that Saphira was- possessing four legs _and_ two wings. Even now, her mind shuddered at the image of him. He was powerful and wise, and she hoped she would never have to face him on the field of battle.

Saphira allowed the air current to lower her from the high heavens, passing through misty clouds in the process. She reveled in the cool that passionately rubbed over her skin as she broke through the nimbus, putting her directly in the glare of an afternoon sun. Her heart jumped again, despite the bright glare that threatened her vision. She felt invincible now- she was a _dragon! _

But she knew the feeling was fleeting. Soon, she would have to return to Ellesmera- where she would be adorned with armor and then marched off to fight the Sealed Elves. Their massing army devastated the land of the Xoshan Elves, and she, along with Eragon and their allies, were all that stood in the way between victory and defeat. If they beat the Sealed Elves, she and Eragon would be able to fly to Feinster with a small contingent of elves to assist Orrin. After losing the North, a loss at Feinster would spell doom to the Varden's cause. But that thought brought another to Saphira's mind.

_What is the Varden's cause? _

The humans wanted more power. The dwarves and the elves wanted revenge. Galbatorix, in his own right, had been able to keep the peace for nearly one hundred years. In fact, it was Orrin who started this war of reclaiming a throne that his predecessors had lost. She was told she was fighting a war for justice, one that would alleviate the suffering of millions under the Empire's heel. But she realized then that all of that were things that she was simply _told, _not something she _knew. _Above all things, Saphira wished for the truth. The dragon turned in the air, her spiked tail drawing a line across the belly of a nearby cloud. She pressed her wings to her sides as she made her descent towards the ground. Slowly, through a thinning field of white, the shining buildings of Ellesmera came into view. Many things could be said of the Elves, but you could not possibly call them fools. The vast districts of Ellesmera were all organized, paved, and spaced appropriately between wooded areas, which were also maintained in beauty. Artificial lakes glimmered under the eye of the sun, while carved oak statues danced along cobbled pathways leading to different cities. Above all, however, was Gillendel. Even from her vantage point, the statue on Aryan's hill seemed to absorb light from the sun, shining with a golden gloss. Below him, the royal chambers of the queen's household stood, and finally, below that, the city itself. As she drew closer to Gillendel, she could begin to feel Eragon's thoughts within her own mind.

_Saphira! _ Eragon's mind seemed excited, not only due to her, but for some other reason. Saphira herself allowed her own consciousness to drift into a more intimate contiguity with Eragon's, in an attempt to find out the reason behind his strange feelings. She jolted as he drew his mind quickly away from hers, just as she began to circle around the royal chambers of Gillendel. Below her, sharp eyes spotted Eragon himself, standing with Arya, Aerion, Orik, and Oromis. The statue-covered courtyard grew larger in size as Saphira slowly descended, before finally alighting on the ground with a click of her claws.

"Saphira, I welcome you. I imagine that your training with Glaedr has gone well?" Oromis greeted almost cheerfully. Saphira bowed her head, responding with her true voice, which was a deep yet beautiful rumble from within her throat.

"Glaedr is a good instructor. I believe that once Eragon and I strengthen our bond, we will be a formidable opponent for the Sealed Elves." Eragon approached Saphira, his boots scraping on the cobbled courtyard floor. She was larger than him now, her head a foot and a half above his own. Awed, he ran a hand down the front of her wings, touching each feather delicately.

"These are new," He said with a small smile. Saphira lowered her head and nudged his neck.

"And so are you. The turmoil in your body is gone. The Spirit . . . "

"Is still within me. I . . . I have controlled it, thanks to Oromis. In time . . . I believe I would be able to speak with it. To find out what it knows." Eragon wrapped his arms around Saphira's long neck, pressing his check against her scales. His skin was cold, but there was a companionable comfort to it. She had missed him.

"You have grown larger Saphira." Eragon said conversationally. His mind was still distant from hers, hidden and blocked behind the walls of his consciousness.

_What is he hiding from me? _

"Glaedr placed Saphira in the same world that we were in. Within that realm, as you know, time was distorted. That is why Saphira is larger than when you last saw her." Oromis approached him, his gilded armor clicking. The Dwarib Prince Orik snorted as he eyed Saphira.

"Whatever was done, it worked. She looks large enough to ride." He stated, to which Arya nodded.

"She will be magnificent. For the first time, we shall truly see Eragon become a real Rider."

"Then they must begin their final training. Two days hence, we will fight the Sealed in open combat." Oromis looked up at Saphira, and then down at Eragon.

"You must be ready. Or you will die."

(Line break)

"Avela is going to Feinster." Morzan answered brusquely as Murtagh frowned into his father's back. He _hated_ the man, and hated Galbatorix even more for turning him into Morzan's possession once more. Every time Murtagh saw Morzan's face, his old scars seemed to reopen, seeping with warm and bitter blood. The sun shone from a window backed by an iron tracery, causing light to fall onto the dark floor in serrated slices. Among the two men sat another, a being that had chosen the name Thorn. It was Murtagh's dragon, but due to the restoration of its Eldeena blood from the Eldunari, it had the appearance of not a winged creature, but rather a young man. Straight red hair fell over one red eye as the rest of Thorn's locks ran down the back of his neck. He was of slight build, arms folded across a slim chest as he sat on the floor, leaning himself against a heavy wall. Shadows moved freely over his person, and the only thing that betrayed his impression of dull disinterest was the sharp shine of his blood-colored pupil, which followed Morzan and Murtagh closer than any artist attempting to capture the moment ever could.

"Avela will need my assistance. I told you: The Varden has a Rider." Murtagh pressured. Morzan turned his face half-ways towards his frowning son.

"The information gleaned from your brother Hagganthil and Caomhim have told me as much. I suppose I should inform you of another fact: That rider is your brother as well."

Murtagh's face froze.

_Both of my brothers . . . they live . . . _

"I'm sure Selena would be happy. The man that birthed her children only succeeded in killing the mother."

Morzan roared has he turned to attack, drawing a blade from his black armor nestled between long robes. Murtagh jumped backward as the tip of Morzan's blade nearly caused him to lose his nose. Before Morzan could ready a second attack, Thorn was between them. Growling, the clothing Thorn wore on his back was torn, a scaled vermilion wing forming a shield from Morzan as the dragon eyed Murtagh's father over the tip of his clawed bat-like forearm.

"Galbatorix will not have any violence within these walls between his own." Thorn's voice was light and raspy, while Murtagh could feel the heat coming from Thorn's back. His dragon may be in his human form, but there was no mistaking Thorn's true nature.

Morzan's face regained its composure, and he stepped away from them as he sheathed his blade. Black hair ran from both sides of his forehead and down to the point of his chin, while green eyes seemed to glow in amusement.

"You have your own things to attend to. The girl you seeded . . . the child she bears is not a normal one." Morzan stated almost conversationally, as if he had not tried to murder Murtagh not moments earlier.

"She will be taken care of soon enough. One the baby is born . . . she will no longer be my concern." Murtagh said with a shake of his head. Thorn's wing slowly regressed, sliding back into his body as muscle melded into skin, until finally nothing was left save for a large hole that exposed his scapula.

"You truly believe you will be able to end the girl's life?" Morzan said with a sly grin. Murtagh frowned at his father.

"Of course." He said quickly.

"You still love her, however." Morzan smiled fully at Murtagh, white teeth gleaming.

"All of my love for the bitch was lost when she betrayed me." Murtagh answered with a snarl. Thorn stepped forward, ready to attack if need be.

"Then why did you not kill her right away? You murdered her brother easily enough . . . though it could be argued that he was less guilty of betrayal than she. You plan on raising the child you both created . . . you may kill her, but the fact remains you still have feelings for this Nasuada. I wonder how that will come into play with Alauinel."

_He knows? But how . . . _ Murtagh brushed away his thoughts as he ran a hand through his hair.

"Alauinel is my trainer. Nothing more." He lied. Morzan gave him a comical glance.

"I knew once you grew older she would take you. You exist in my likeness, regardless of how much you detest me. However, I had hoped you would be stronger than that. You may have inherited my face, but the workings of my mind seem to have passed over you." Murtagh saw Alauinel in his mind then. When he was in her bed, when she was in his arms. It was different from when he had been with Nasuada. Alauinel . . . he was an _object_ to her. Something to fulfill her own desire, her own infatuation with Morzan. To her, he was not even a living being. He was just a tool of gratification. Nasuada . . . she . . .

_Loved me. _

"If you wish to go to Feinster . . . I will not stop you. I do not know if Rahadon will be present with the Varden's forces. According to Caomhim's memories, the boy is among the Laen Elves of Ellesmera." Murtagh shook himself from his thoughts and focused in on his father's words.

"Rahadon will be among the Varden's armies. They will not pull any stops in order to capture Feinster. If they fail, their entire offensive will crumble apart."

Morzan smiled yet again.

"The Elves will have their own war to fight. I am sure Alauinel has told you about how she assisted the Sealed Elves in reviving their god."

Murtagh remembered. He knew of her plans . . . before, he had not cared. He was fine to see the world burn, un-bothered by the sights of destruction and death. But Nasuada's resurgence . . . the fact that she carried _his _child . . . Murtagh knew at that point he did not want the world to be turned into a hellish realm at the whim of Golhlobor.

"This is why you called me here, isn't it? You want to stop the Sealed Elves. Stop Alauinel." Murtagh said quietly. Morzan's somber green eyes locked with that of his son's.

"You are not as foolish as I thought. The Varden is still our enemy . . . but the battle with the Sealed Elves may halt Golhlobor's ambition."

"What could either of us do? Your face is infamous among the Elves. And I myself cannot be seen. I will be mistaken for you." Murtagh looked past his father, and to the window beyond. They would have to leave the Varden to their own devices . . .

"I would not call myself a Warlock, Murtagh." A female voice answered. Stunned, Murtagh's eyes shot again to that of his father. Thorn, usually composed and calm, stood with his mouth agape.

Morzan continued, "But I have the powers of transmutation. It is a hefty spell, and difficult to maintain. However, with this we will be able to help the Elves fight the Sealed."

Morzan had the face of a handsome woman, and her wrists were circled with thick and knotting scars.

(line break)

Elva watched as siege machines were pieced together. Dust rolled by on the sandy ground, which was sprinkled with thickets of yellow grass. Beside her, Solembum rested; his black fur shining as his stomach slowly rose and fell. In the far distance, she could see the towering citadel of Feinster. It seemed so far away, but she knew that soon battle would grip the land. Shouts and directed orders filled her ears at equal intervals between the cries of thousands of birds that had recently flown from the east. She could sense the fear from them, and with her magic, she could discern their thoughts. They fled one thing, one word that was repeated again and again within their tiny brains.

_Death. _

In a turn of grim fortune, they had met death here as well. Many of the magic-users had taken to killing mass amounts of them so that they could be roasted and eaten. Bird meat made a small meal, but barrels of freshly cooked fowl were soon passed around the camp. Food was plentiful, and the creatures of the sky seemed content to keep flying towards them. Angela said it was because birds loved to be _eaten, _but Elva recognized a hollowness in her blue eyes. A faint wave of fear was about Angela's person, and while it was barely recognizable, the emotion was so uncharacteristically un-_Angela _ that Elva found herself staying away from her eccentric master.

"Are people dying yet?" Solembum asked dully as he yawned. His feline mouth pulled back to reveal sharp fangs that shone like bleached bones. Elva smiled as she reached out and stroked Solembum's head.

"No, not yet. They're still building the siege weapons." She giggled as Solembum purred.

"This is why war is so _boring. _There is all of this talk of vengeance and blood and victory and _spoils, _always with the damn _spoils." _Solembum had been annoyed ever since they had been forced to listen to Orrin's speech the night before. The young King had talked for what seemed like hours, and Elva had made a game of it to count how many times he spoke of riches and _spoils. _They both sat atop a craggy hill, and below them the scattered camp of the Varden circled. At the foremost of large circumference, patrols constantly rode back and forth, watching faraway Feinster. Closer, men sawed and nailed and hammered large blocks of wood in order to create towering machines that battered walls, hurled stone, and carried soldiers to the tops of battlements. The area around Feinster was arid and nearly treeless, but the oak had been retrieved from the bountiful forests that lied outside the watery grip of the vast swamps in the lands of Aroughs. Solembum rolled onto his stomach and rested his head on black forelegs.

"I wonder what it will be like. The last time I was in battle my circumstances changed quite dramatically." Solembum said conversationally. Elva herself thought the same thing. If they lost this war . . . what would be there for them? In a way, she was confused by Angela. Throwing all of their lots in with Orrin just to create a united force to combat Golhlobor seemed almost childish.

"Do you think Angela knows what she is doing?" Elva whispered. The fact that she, for the first time in her life, questioned Angela's motives scared her. Solembum rose his head and looked at her. He licked his lips, and then his paws, and yawned. Finally, he spoke.

"Well, if she is wrong and this was all one big mistake, she is only responsible for a few thousand deaths." He said cheerfully. Elva gave him an annoyed smile.

"I don't know if I should hug you or make your fur light on fire."

"You can do that now? Why does a girl like you need to know how to do such a thing?"

Elva shrugged and grinned.

"Angela said it would be useful."

"To witches, turning princes into frogs is somehow _useful." _ Elva rose from her seated position among the dirt and rock, brushing off her clothing.

"We don't turn princes into frogs. But we do turn panthers into cats." She laughed as she reached for Solembum. Faster than light, he evaded her and made his way down the hill. Elva chased after him, her mind forgetting the stress of her current predicament as she wove past men building tools that would carry them to their deaths.

(line break)

Danziig lifted his eyes from the burning bodies of Xoshans. Behind him, black embers still crackled as Golhlobor's flames dwindled and died. He had fed well in the previous battle, and with that victory, they would soon be able to conquer Ellesmera. But tradition got in the way. The Spring Fertility was an event that could not be ignored, and for a days upon end the Sealed Elves gave into their lusts, procreating amongst the dead. But finally, it was over. Soon, their armies would mobilize again, and they would be on the march. Above, Letherbalka circled, cawing and whispering. Danziig watched as groups of Raz'ac stalked between decomposing bodies, plucking eyes from corpses and popping them into their mouths.

"_Kuroein (_General) Danziig." The Sealed Elf turned around to find his captain, Juhol Blois, standing before him. Juhol had bright-white blond hair and two mismatched eyes- one was yellow, the other was blue. His skin was as dark as night and smoother than polished wood, and his body was sculpted and hard. On his back two swords waited, and over his chest he wore a molded leather hauberk. A belt separated this dressing from holed trousers, and his feet were clasped in little more than rags. Yet, despite this, Danziig himself saw Juhol fell an Xoshan bear-clan member, the gigantic beast dressed in wood and metal, with large horns curving from its furred head.

"What is it, Juhol?" Danziig asked.

"The legions are ready to march on your command."

_The time has come. _

"Have you received word from my father?"

Juhol shook his head. "Herzig is still communing with the other shamans. Our god has returned to us. It will not be long." Danziig smiled. He shared Juhol's excitement.

"There will be much death, soon." Danziig walked then, Juhol taking up step beside him. They climbed up a large hill, bodies rolling backwards under the kick of their heels. As they moved, they could hear the legions howling, until finally the came to the top of the bloodied hill. Danziig spread his arms wide as he saw the one million strong Sealed, the forsaken Elves raising weapons as they shouted his praises. Letherbalka squalled in the air, joining in with the bedlam. Danziig filled his lungs, and shouted into the crowd.

"In two days . . . Ellesmera will _burn." _


	93. Well guys it's been fun

ANNOUNCEMENT ABOUT PART 2 of Eldest Final Chapter/Brisingr.

(A/N) Well guys, Eldest Part 2 has clocked in at about 10,000 words with no end in sight. NO one wants to read that many words in one chapter, so that portion of Eldest will be the first parts of Brisingr. Meaning there will be some major fights in the first few chapters. Also, I'm going to be working on my grammatical errors, which have been called "random" (lol) due to the fact they come out of nowhere. I don't proof read since I never really had a problem with errors such as these, but they do happen when you've been writing for hours. So while I hate it, I will proof read before I post. So while this is very anti-climactic, Eldest is officially over. I have a few questions for you people:

What is your favorite thing about the rewrite so far?

Who are your favorite original characters?

Do you enjoy the lore or is it better in CP's version?

What is your opinion on the current level of character development?

Where do you see this story going?

Have you shown it to any fans of the original Eragon series?

What do you believe will happen in Brisingr?

Anyway, answer those questions if you wish and sit tight for Brisingr!


	94. Brisingr is now up!

BRISINGR IS NOW UP! Read the first chapter (Chapter zero). It does not star the main cast, but rather sets the tone for the battle of Feinster. I will be able to post the next chapters in quick succession, but I will need to take a break in order to work on the Wiki (unless someone wants to help me ahaha xD) anyway, enjoy.


	95. REMINDER!

JUST A REMINDER THAT BRISINGR IS NOW UP! For those of you who have finished the duology.


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